Chains And Whips Excite Me
by DorianPink
Summary: Back by popular demand, Demitria Blake, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meet the mysterious and seductive Irene Adler, and begin to really see the threads of Moriarty's 'web'. Sherlock/OC
1. Chapter 1

_It was time to decide._

Demi looked slowly between Sherlock and Moriarty, feeling the tear tracks on her face dry as her skin flushed, her racing heart making it warm and causing the moisture to dry into salty trails.  
>And then she heard the single most confusing – and strangely ironic – thing that she could possibly have heard at that moment.<br>The Bee Gees. And the ironic part? It was 'Staying Alive'.  
>They glanced about confusedly, her eyes meeting Sherlock' s as a tiny crease appeared between her eyebrows, her confusion evident. 'Jim' rolled his eyes and sighed.<br>"Do you mind if I get that?" His voice was tired. Demi would have laughed at the situation they were in if there wasn't a Semtex bomb, a gun and a small army of snipers involved.  
>"Oh no please," Sherlock replied, sounding to all the world as if he were just conversing with a friend, "You've got the rest of your life."<br>He answered it, frowning.  
>"Hello?...Yes of course it is, what do you want?" He fidgeted from foot to foot as the person on the other end of the line spoke. He rolled his eyes and mouthed 'sorry' at Demi, Sherlock and John – the latter of whom were looking between themselves and the consulting criminal in utter confusion. Sherlock, still holding the gun aloft, mouthed 'it's fine' with a little shrug of his shoulders. Again, the urge to laugh hysterically and manically bubbled up inside Demi's stomach and she forced it away, taking a deep breath. Suddenly, Jim shouted.<br>"SAY THAT AGAIN!"  
>Demi jumped, stumbling backwards and almost landing on John.<br>"Say that again," continued Jim, "And know that if you're lying to me I will find you and I will skin you…" The last two words were drawn out, his hand miming the separation of skin from flesh and his eyes glinting with a sort of dangerous madness, the sort Demi had only read about in books and thought to be false. But this, this danger and malice, was very, very real. "Wait." He instructed them, before lowering the phone and taking a few slow, deliberate steps towards the three people watching him cautiously. "Sorry," he spoke slowly, "Wrong day to die."  
>"Did you get a better offer?" Asked Sherlock calmly, nodding towards the phone. Jim looked down at it and back at him.<br>"You'll be hearing from me Sherlock." He turned and walked back, his expensive leather shoes making distinct noises as he made his way across the tiles towards the pool exit, still talking on his phone.  
>"So if you have what you say you have…I'll make you rich." He told them, "But if you don't…I'll turn you into shoes."<br>As he reached the door, he clicked, summoning his snipers as he left the pool. Sherlock looked around as the spell that had been woven so tightly over all of them was broken and time seemed to return to itself once more. For a moment all they could hear was the noise of the pool filter and their own ragged breathing, and then John spoke.  
>"So what happened there?"<br>Demi looked to Sherlock to answer.  
>"Someone changed his mind. Question is, who?"<p>

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	2. Chapter 2

Demi yawned and stretched, glowering at the glowing numbers on her alarm clock and hauling herself out of bed before throwing on her dressing gown and walking out of her bedroom. As she walked down the corridor she heard her two housemates talking as someone – probably John – clicked away on his laptop keyboard.

"What are you typing?" She'd know that bored sounding baritone anywhere, clearly Sherlock was between cases.

"Blog."

"About?"  
>"Us."<p>

"You mean me."

"Why?"

"Well, you're typing a lot." Demi rolled her eyes as she entered the kitchen.

"Morning boys," She yawned slightly as her hand flicked the kettle on, almost on auto pilot, "Sleep well?"

John answered 'yes thanks', with Sherlock going for the slightly more unusual 'didn't sleep' as the doorbell went. Sherlock clapped his hands after setting down his paper.

"Well then, what have we got?"

He marched off downstairs and John sighed before looking up at the sleepy looking morgue attendant who was stirring a coffee sluggishly.

"You might want to get dressed if that's a client."

"Right." She nodded, eyes half closed, "Back in a minute."

After throwing on some clean clothes and brushing her teeth, she wandered back into the living room, dragging a brush through her unruly black hair.

"My wife seems to be spending a long time at the office…." A man in a beige coat spoke, hands clasped in front of him nervously, palms sweating.

"Boring." Sherlock was brief and to the point. And Demi threw a sugar cube at the back of his head as the man dejectedly left the flat.

"You bully."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Did you honestly want me to go into detail about how his wife was-"

"I just think you could use a bit more tact as opposed to making people feel about a millimetre tall with your bluntness." She raised her hands slightly, "You'll make fewer enemies."

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock didn't try to raise his tact levels. Frankly he didn't see the point; the cases were dull, pointless. The most interesting thing that had happened in hours was Demi allowing him to read through her post-mortem report. Things seemed to be fairly peaceful at Baker Street.

And then he told two little girls that people didn't go to heaven.

After a frankly sickeningly sweet conversation in which Demi assured them that Sherlock was lying and yes she was sure their granddad was very happy in heaven and wouldn't it be best if they went home now since it got dark earlier in the winter, the little girls left. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, not seeing her walk across the room, and was completely taken off guard when the small globe Demitria had been using to pin down her papers hit him directly on the back of the skull. For a moment he looked stunned, like a gazelle that had heard a twig snap, and then he whirled around, seeing John looking between his two flatmates as if measuring how long it would take for things to escalate, and Demi, sat with her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed to slits, the bright blue of her irises – specked every so often with a darker blue fleck – only just visible between ebony eyelashes.

"Might I ask exactly why you just threw a globe at my head?"

"Because what you just did was horrible! How old were they? Eight?"

"I was only telling them the truth!" He bit back.

"Yes well it was unnecessary." Her voice was harsh as she turned her head away. Sherlock sighed and stalked off to his room, from which the noises of him tuning his violin soon emanated. Demi harshly signed her name at the bottom of a file and John watched curiously over the screen of his laptop as she grumbled to herself, stacking the papers and stapling them with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Honestly….telling children there's no heaven…god he can be annoying sometimes…"

Sherlock struck a particularly sour note and John winced.

"Maybe you should go talk to him?" He suggested, "Before he does that all night."

Demi slumped as she sighed.

"Why is it always me apologising? It's never him! I mean I understand that we're not exactly your conventional couple, if that's even what we are, but I'd appreciate it if he accepted that he's human too and he makes mistakes just like us lowly normal folk!" She bit her lip as if trying to stop it trembling and John sat next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"He doesn't care John, about me, about anything!"

They winced as Sherlock repeated the unturned note at a slightly higher pitch, and John hugged her closer with the arm around her shoulders.

"He does care, I can see it, he just doesn't know how to show it. He's always like this, you know that as well as I do."

She laughed slightly and nodded.

"Now why don't you go talk to him and I'll stick the kettle on?"

She nodded, walking out of the room and down the corridor before knocking on Sherlock's bedroom door.

"Sherlock?"

The violin tuning continued so she tried again, louder.

"Sherlock!"

Abruptly, the noise stopped.

"Yes?"

"Can I come in?"

He didn't respond, so she took his silence as a yes and turned the door handle. Sherlock's room was surprisingly tidy given his usual messiness, she supposed it was because he didn't have books, photos, things that other people hoarded to make a place look more 'homey'. Sherlock himself was stood by the window, Stradivarius in one hand, plucking and playing notes randomly as she closed the door behind her and walked over as he set the violin lovingly into its case.

"I'm sorry I threw a globe at you." She spoke, resting a hand on his arm as he continued to look out of the window. His eyes flickered to hers for a moment before returning to the profile of the London streets. Suddenly Demi chuckled to herself and he looked down at her.

"What?"

She shook her head.

"Just a stray thought."

He turned completely to her.

"Tell me."

"It's not that funny…"

"Demitria." His tone was firm. She giggled and spoke.

"What can I say, you mean the world to me, I was just waiting for it to hit you."

She got the satisfaction of seeing his lips twitch upwards in what may have been the ghost of a smile, and knew that they were okay again.

"I am sorry Sherlock, I just lost my temper again, you know I've had a tendency to do so after…"

She trailed off but he knew what she meant. After the incident at the pool, Demi's nerves had been frayed slightly – not as badly as Molly's who was now seeing John's old therapist twice a week and was even more likely to spontaneously burst into tears, but badly enough that her temper suffered bouts of shortness that often ended in Sherlock being shouted at. She was improving, now that time had passed and she'd come to terms with what had happened, but it still happened occasionally. His train of thought broke as her lips pressed gently against his cheek.

"Come on, John is making tea and you're bound to have a client soon."

The doorbell went.

"See?" She smiled, scarlet lips widening to reveal straight white teeth and the corners of her blue eyes crinkling slightly. "Am I forgiven?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"I'm considering it."

She grinned and hugged him. She smelled of lemon body cream and coffee, and her cheek was warm against his neck. For a moment he remembered how she had embraced him at the pool and his pulse sped slightly before returning to the same, steady pulsing of blood through veins.

"Well then, let's see if this one's actually interesting!" She backed away and left the room, Sherlock following shortly behind.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Demi watched as Sherlock observed the eyes of the corpse through his magnifying glass, John looking at the specks all over the girl's body.

"Two pierce wounds, possibly bite marks, but I can't find evidence of venom in her system. I'm running a full tox scan but it could take a while." She spoke to the room at large as Lestrade stood beside her, watching them all with the same confused curiousness his face usually held, "Just in case you wanted details for your blog John."

Sherlock sighed.

"Does anyone actually read it?"

"Where do you think your clients come from?" John replied, sounding offended.

"I have a website." Sherlock spoke, examining the black speckles.

"Yeah, upon which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash. Nobody's reading your website." John retorted. Sherlock looked up at Demi who shrugged helplessly.

"I read it…and Molly does…"

He scowled for a moment before walking out of the doors to the morgue. Demi sighed.

"I'll put her away then shall I?"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Two weeks later, Demi was dragged out of bed far too early in the morning to accompany John and Sherlock to another crime scene. Almost running to keep up with Sherlock, she tuned into Lestrade's speech.

"There was a plane crash in Dusseldorf yesterday. Everyone dead."

"Suspected terrorist bomb. We do watch the news." Sherlock responded, sounding bored. Demi raised her eyebrows.

"You said 'boring' and turned over!"

Lestrade coughed and attempted to hide his smile .

"Well according to the flight details this man was checked in on board."

They approached a silvery car parked on the embankment, with a corpse hanging out of the trunk.

It did occur briefly to Demi's coffee fuelled brain that most people would think it an odd, perhaps disturbing thing to see a body in the trunk of a car, but then again she worked in a morgue and was in what could loosely be termed a relationship with a high functioning sociopathic consulting detective. In short Demitria Blake was not 'most people'. Lestrade continued to talk as Sherlock pulled the trunk lid down to inspect the number plate and then bent to look at the body.

"Inside his coat he's got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight…here's his passport, stamped in Berlin Airport. So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday, and instead he's in a car boot in London!"

Demi bent beside Sherlock to examine the man's body more closely.

"Any ideas so far?" She asked, lifting his arm out of the way to examine the man's eyes.

"Eight so far…" He nudged her out of his line of vision as he looked over the man's skin for markings. He pursed his lips as she looked over.

"Okay maybe four ideas…"

Suddenly he straightened, examining the passport and ticket.

"Make that two ideas…" He muttered as a plane flew overhead, casting a shadow upon them all.

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	3. Chapter 3

She yawned as she walked up the stairs, almost tripping on the creaky step and performing a spectacular impression of a windmill before regaining her balance and continuing up the stairs.

John and Sherlock appeared to be arguing again as she opened the door.

"No, no don't mention the unsolved ones!" Sherlock spoke from the centre of the room, clad in his usual shirt and trousers combination accompanied by his dressing gown, a pair of industrial rubber gloves and some safety goggles. His black hair was in disarray and he gesticulated as he spoke, the green liquid in the flask he clasped in his left hand slopping dangerously close to the rim of said flask and nearly flying out of it towards John, and the blowtorch in his other hand being pointed in Demi's direction as she slowly removed her scarf.

"People want to know you're human!" Insisted John, nodding in greeting at Demi, who was looking at them with amusement as she threw her handbag on top of a pile of maps that was now dominating the sofa.

"Why?" Asked Sherlock, eyebrows furrowing.

"Because they're interested."

"No they're not..." He looked away for a moment, icy blue eyes taking in Demitria in the doorway before turning back to John. "Why are they?"

John didn't answer, instead clicking onto his own blog and smiling.

"Hmm, look at that. One thousand, eight hundred and ninety five."

Demi stepped forwards to look at the screen.

"Eh?"

"I reset that counter last night." He gestured to the numbers on the screen beneath his smiling profile picture. "This blog has had nearly two thousand hits in the last twelve hours. _This_ is your living Sherlock, not two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash."

Sherlock straightened upright, obviously trying to defend his wounded pride.

"Two hundred and forty three." He stated sulkily, starting up the blowtorch and heading into the kitchen. Demi giggled, clapping her hand over her mouth as Sherlock peered over, and scanned John's blog over his shoulder.

"Impressive."

There came a loud BANG and the sound of shattering glass before the all too familiar sound of acid eating away at wood met their ears. Demi ran over to where Sherlock, sporting several holes in his crisp white shirt, was mopping at a greenish puddle.

"Sherlock! Watch the counters, Aunty Jean will have our heads!"

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

"So what's this one? Belly Button Murders?" Sherlock inquired sarcastically, hands in pockets as his two companions walked either side of him.

"The Navel Treatment?" Suggested Demi, peering around Sherlock. John's eyes brightened.

"The Navel…I like that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed as Lestrade approached.

"There's a lot of press outside guys!"

"Well they won't be interested in us." Sherlock spoke in the usual tone Demi had come to link to Scotland Yard and it's unusually incompetent staff.

"Yeah, well that was before you three became an internet phenomenon. Couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you three."

Sherlock walked slightly faster.

"God's sake…Demitria put that ridiculous hood up."

She glowered as she raised the hood of her hoodie, the ears protruding from it as she did so and making her look like an angry kitten.

"John." Sherlock continued.

"Hmm?"

"Cover your face and walk fast." He tossed a hat over Demi's head as she ducked and straight into John's face. He walked out of the room and ahead of them again, a hat clasped in his hand.

"Still, it's good for the public image, big case like this." Announced Lestrade as they approached the exit.

"I'm a private detective, the last thing I need is a public image." Grumbled Sherlock, ramming on a deerstalker and yanking it to cover his eyes, flipping his collar up to cover his face as they left the doors. Demi blinked and ducked her head down to hide her eyes from the bright flashing lights of the cameras as they left the building, her between Sherlock and John – the latter of which looked as stunned as she felt. She smiled as she heard Sherlock curse under his breath as they marched on through.

"Sherlock! Over here Sherlock!"

"Doctor Watson!"

"Demitria, what's the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

All the voices blended into one as Sherlock all but dislocated her arm, hastily pulling her into a cab as a woman wearing far too much makeup and far too little clothing approached with a microphone.

Needless to say the headlines the next day were amusing.

"Hey John, Sherlock, look at this!" Demi announced, waving a paper in front of them where John was leaning against the counter, drinking coffee and Sherlock was blow torching a flask.

"Hat Man, Robin and Catwoman – The Web Detectives…" John read out, Sherlock rolled his eyes and Demi grinned.

"Oh come on, you've got to admit it's funny."

"If I wanted to be called 'Hat Man' I'd put it on my website…and they did refer to you as a furry animal that cleans itself with its tongue and coughs up fur balls."

She stuck her tongue out at him and John rolled his eyes.

"I'll have you know Cat Woman is awesome. Now cheer up or I'll tie you to that chair and force you to listen to the whole article."

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	4. Chapter 4

Demi was quite pleased with herself if she was honest. She had a weekend off work ahead of her and plans to have drinks with Molly – who was doing well in therapy and was her usual bubbly self once more. So when she entered 221B to hear her aunt shouting "BOYS! YOU'VE GOT ANOTHER ONE!" at the top of her lungs and then entered the upstairs flat itself only to see a passed out, slightly pudgy, middle aged man on the kitchen floor, she sighed and abandoned all plans of starting her new John Green novel just yet.

"Oh Demi dear…I was just going through the fridge – there are thumbs in the vegetable drawer! – and he just…ran in." Mrs Hudson was clearly shaken as John and Sherlock entered, John kneeling to check on the fallen man and Sherlock taking in the scene before him with disdain. Demi smiled and patted her aunt's arm gently.

"Why don't you go make a cup of tea and we'll take care of this…and Sherlock will get rid of the thumbs." The latter part of the sentence was spoken sternly, her bright blue eyes fixing on Sherlock's, eyebrows raised and hands on hips as Mrs Hudson nodded and, with a final glance at the tubby man in the mustard vest, scarpered. John was speaking consolingly to the fallen man and helping him into a chair as Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Will I?" He challenged, sounding like a stubborn six year old.

"Yes. Or I will. Honestly Sherlock you can't keep scaring aunty Jean like this."

Sherlock stepped closer.

"You don't mind my experiments. And she didn't _need_ to be rummaging around our refrigerator."

She sighed.

"Well I work with corpses on a daily basis, I'm immune. And she's just looking out for us okay? She cares about us and I know that's a bit of a foreign concept to you but please just try not to store decomposing body parts next to the leeks."

"You don't even like leeks!" He protested, part of his mind cataloguing the slight tone of bitterness in her voice and another musing over what it could possibly be about.

"Sherlock." Her tone was firm.

"Guys!" John called, "He's ready to talk."

Demi broke eye contact first, strutting into the living room to sit on Sherlock's chair by the fire. Sherlock followed and stood before the sweaty individual.

"Tell us from the start, don't be boring."

And so it began.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

The next morning saw Demi and John being driven towards a scenic valley, a laptop on Demi's knees and an irritated expression on her face.

"Don't see why he couldn't come out here, lazy sod…"

John just nodded. He knew from experience that when Demi and Sherlock were at odds it was generally best just to let things go with the flow as opposed to intervene and possibly turn a small argument into the human equivalent of a nuclear explosion, even more so now that they were…well, now that things were no longer 100% platonic. In all honesty he wasn't sure what category his flatmates fitted into, given that neither of them were what would be labelled social and both of them were as stubborn as mules. The car stopped beside a mobile forensics unit – clearly they were still in the process of actively investigating the crime scene, Demi just hoped they didn't run into the valley equivalent of Anderson. A ginger haired policeman – pale in complexion and clearly new to the force, knocked on the window and John rolled it down.

"We're here to see DI Carter?" John smiled, nudging Demi who looked up at the young man and smiled as amiably as she could, resulting in a faint pink blush on the young man's cheeks.

"Yes…yes of course….Sir," He turned and walked over to a suited man who'd just come off the phone, "there's a gentleman and a lady in the car, apparently they need to speak to you."

"Yes I know," He spoke as they got out of the car, "Sherlock Holmes?"

"John Watson, this is Demi Blake…are you set up for Wi-Fi?"

X

Demi finished clicking away and stepped back.

"Right, just waiting for him to answer the connection now."

She saw a shadow appear on the screen and Sherlock appeared wearing nothing but his white bed sheet, scratching his ear as he yawned.

"You realise this is a tiny bit humiliating?" She asked as he picked up a cup of coffee.

"It's okay I'm fine. Now show me the stream."

John turned with the laptop so it faced the water trickling through the valley.

"We didn't mean humiliating for _you_ Sherlock." Came Demitria's disembodied voice as Sherlock sat down with the laptop.

"Look, this is a six. There's no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven, we agreed."

He adjusted the screen and his face, all cheekbones, scruffy hair and silvery blue eyes, came fully into view. "Now go back and show me the grass."

"When did we agree that?" Demi asked as they knelt to show Sherlock the grass and she held out an extended tape measure to show him how far the blood had spread.

"We agreed it yesterday…Stop! Closer."

Demi forcefully turned the screen to her face as john moved closer.

"I wasn't even home yesterday and John was in Dublin until just before I got back."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"It's hardly my fault you weren't listening." The doorbell rang and he whirled to face the staircase of the empty flat, "SHUT UP!"

"Do you just carry on talking while we're away?" John inquired as Demi looked around her.

"I don't know, how often are you away?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Quite the charmer you are."

John coughed to hide his chuckle as Sherlock asked them to show him the backfiring car. He handed the laptop to Demi as he stood upright and she zoomed in on the car for him.

"There."

"That's the one that made the noise, yes?"

"Yup. If you're thinking gunshot, there wasn't one. I haven't looked properly at the body yet, they're not done, but it was a blunt instrument delivering a single blow to the back of the head. Both instrument and killer then miraculously vanished. That has to be an eight at least?"

The policeman behind them was watching them with confusion, suspicion and annoyance.

"You've got two more minutes, we want to know more about the driver."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"Oh forget him, he's an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?"

"I think he's a suspect!" Interjected Carter, leaning between Demi's face and the laptop now facing her as she walked. Sherlock leaned in.

"Pass me over."

"Alright but there's a mute button and I _will _use it." She replied, handing Carter the laptop and backing off to walk beside John, throwing him the expression of complete exasperation he had come to link with Sherlock.

"Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness why would he then call the police and consult a detective? Fair play?"

"He's trying to be clever." Replied Carter gruffly, "It's over-confidence."

Demi rolled her eyes – as did Sherlock, to John's great amusement.

"Did you see him? Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own….the right sleeve of an internet porn addict…" Demi snickered, "and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition, low self esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy and you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?" The latter part of Sherlock's showing off was marred slightly by his sarcastic laugh. He then turned and revealed said man directly behind him. Demi stuffed her fist into her mouth so her laughter wasn't too obvious, eyes crinkling and watering as John rolled his eyes and smiled slightly. "Don't worry this is just stupid." Sherlock attempted to console the man, who looked immensely panicked.

"What did you say? Heart what?"

Sherlock ignored him.

"Go to the stream."

"What's in the stream?" Demanded Carter.

"Go and see."

Mrs Hudson ran up the stairs flanked by two suited men.

"Sherlock! You weren't answering your doorbell!"

"His room is out back, get him some clothes."

"Who the hell are you?"

Demi snatched the laptop back.

"Sherlock? What's going on?"

One of the suited men slammed the laptop shut and she bristled.

"Well that was rude!"

The young ginger man ran over.

"Er…Doctor Watson, Miss Blake? It's for you."

"Okay thanks." John held out his hand for the phone.

"Oh no sir not this, the helicopter."

John and Demi turned to see a helicopter landing on the riverside.

"What the-?" John began, Demi just stared. A man climbed out and walked over to the staring duo.

"Miss Blake, Doctor Watson, if you'll come with me?"

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	5. Chapter 5

Having been flown back to London and ushered into the doors of _Buckingham palace _of all places, Demi and John looked around themselves with fascination and more that a little confusion, following their guide who gestured grandly into a brightly lit room with many windows before leaving. And there, on an extravagant, embroidered sofa, was Sherlock. Before him on an equally tasteful table were his clothes, folded neatly with his expensive leather shoes resting atop them. Sherlock himself was sat in the middle of the palace wearing a white bed sheet. He turned over and Demi gestured about her, a questioning look in her eyes. Sherlock sighed and shrugged, the sheet rustling about him as he did so. Slowly, they walked over to sit with him, Demi beside him and John to her right. They sat in silence for a moment before she turned to look at Sherlock, eyes taking in his profile and – more specifically – his state of dress.

"You look like Julius Ceasar…Are you wearing any pants?" She questioned after a moment. Sherlock didn't even look at her.

"No."

"Okay." She nodded and looked around her again, pressing her lips together to stop herself giggling when she met John's gaze. They both looked over to Sherlock and, en masse, started laughing.

"We're at Buckingham palace…right." John spoke, clearing his throat. "I am seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ash tray."

They chuckled for a few moments, Demi relaxing into the fabric of the sofa, hand resting on Sherlock's leg of its own accord on the tiny sofa.

"What are we doing here Sherlock? Seriously?"

"I don't know." He replied, looking over.

"Are we here to see the Queen?" She suggested, looking around. Mycroft Holmes rounded the corner, well dressed as ever, And Sherlock spoke.

"Oh, apparently yes."

She couldn't help it, the whole situation was so bizarre and overwhelming that she giggled along with her flatmates.

"Just once can you three behave like grown ups?"

Demi sighed.

"We solve crimes, John blogs about it and he-" She jerked her head towards Sherlock, "Forgets his pants so I wouldn't hold out too much hope…thought this had something to do with you, nobody else would send a bloody helicopter."

She smiled, a smile which Mycroft returned as he sat opposite them. Sherlock frowned.

"I was in the middle of a case Mycroft."

"What, the hiker and the backfire? I glanced at the police report, bit obvious surely?"

"Transparent." Sherlock answered. Mycroft turned to Demi.

"And to you?"

She shrugged.

"Fairly simple. Would have been nice if they'd let me see the body just to make sure but you can't have everything."

Mycroft nodded.

"Time to move on then." He cleared his throat and presented Sherlock with his clothing. Sherlock just looked at it.

"We are in Buckingham Palace, at the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on." His voice was firm.

"What for?" His response was childish and abrupt. Demi gave him a disapproving glare which he ignored.  
>"Your client."<p>

Sherlock stood.

"And my client is?"

A sandy haired man in what appeared to be a Hufflepuff tie rounded the corner and Demi bit the insides of her cheeks to stop herself pointing out his clothing choice.

"Illustrious, in the extreme. And remaining, I have to inform you, entirely anonymous."

He took in the three before him, his expression fairly unimpressed.

"Mycroft." He smiled. Mycroft stepped forwards, hand extended.

"Harry. May I just apologise for the state of my little brother."

"A full-time occupation, I imagine."

Demi nodded profusely, slowing as she caught Sherlock's eye.

"Ah Miss Demitria Blake, Mycroft has told me much about you."

She smiled, shaking his hand.

"Only good things I hope."

"Of course, and this must be Dr John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?"

John straightened slightly.

"Hello, yes." He held out his hand to shake.

"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog."

"Your employer?" John asked slowly.

"They particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminium crutch."

"Thank you." He gave a pointed look to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes once more. Finally, the sandy haired man turned to the tallest of the three.

"And Mr Holmes the younger, you look taller in your photographs."

"I take the precaution of a good coat and short friends." He started walking away as Demi and John processed this comment, " Mycroft I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases both ends is too much work. Good morning."

As he began to strut away, Mycroft pressed his foot onto the part of Sherlock's sheet that was trailing onto the floor. Sherlock managed to catch said sheet before his exposure became too indecent, but John watched in amusement as Demi's eyebrows shot up her forehead so fast they all but disappeared into her hair, her normally pale cheeks tinged pink as her bright blue eyes widened considerably. Only when he nudged her side and coughed did her eyes stop unashamedly taking in the view.

"This is a matter of national importance, Grow up!" Mycroft commanded, his foot still on the sheet.

"Get off my sheet."

"Or what?" Demanded Mycroft, raising his eyebrows.

"Or I'll just walk away."

"I'll let you." Retorted Mycroft, around about the same time Demi said "Please do." And John threw her a scandalised look before rolling his eyes.

"Boys, Demi, please. Not here."

Sherlock – who looked, John thought, quite smug about something and very annoyed about everything else – bit out another sentence, sheet still clasped around his waist.

"Who. Is. My. Client?"

"Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for God's sake put your clothes on!"

X

Eventually Sherlock did agree to clothe himself and now sat opposite his brother. When he had entered the room, a tea tray had been laid out before them and Demitria was speaking politely to Mycroft and his friend while John stared around himself. Upon sitting down, Sherlock rested his right hand atop Demitria's left leg and resisted the urge to smirk as his brother's expression visibly darkened. Mycroft looked away from the scene before him in order to pour the tea set before them.

"I'll be mother." He stated as he handed Demi a teacup. She smiled and thanked him as Sherlock spoke.

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell."

Demi used the hand that wasn't holding the saucer to gently bat at Sherlock's chest reproachfully. 'Harry' spoke.

"My employer has…a problem."

Mycroft nodded.

"A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen."

"Why?" Demanded Sherlock, "We have a police force of sorts, even a marginally secret service. Why come to me?"

Mycroft glared evenly as his companion spoke.

"People do come to you for help don't they Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock paused in mock thought.

"Not to date anyone with a navy."

Demi and John looked down and away from each other as they tended to do when trying not to laugh at an inappropriate moment.

"This is a matter of the highest security and therefore of trust." Replied Mycroft.

"You don't trust your own secret service?" Interjected John, frowning slightly. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Naturally not, They all spy on people for money."

Demi snickered quietly as Harry interrupted.

"I do think we have a timetable."

Mycroft started and set down his teacup as Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, of course." He cleared his throat as he pulled a photograph out of his briefcase and handed it over. "What do you know about this woman?"

"Nothing whatsoever."

"Then you should be paying more attention. She's been at the centre of two political scandals in the last year and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist, by having an affair with both participants separately."

Sherlock held the photo for John and Demi to look at.

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia. Who is she?" He looked up at his brother.

"Irene Adler, professionally known as The Woman."

Demi looked up.

"Professionally?"

"There are many names for what she does. She prefers 'dominatrix'."

Demitria's eyebrows yet again attempted to propel themselves into orbit.

"Dominatrix…" Sherlock spoke lowly.

"Don't be alarmed, it's to do with sex." Mycroft looked rather self satisfied.

"Sex doesn't alarm me."

Mycroft's smirk widened as he responded, his voice contorted with smugness.

"How would you know?"

Sherlock's hand tightened slightly on Demitria's thigh and she cleared her throat. The eyes of both Holmes brothers shot to her as she spoke, attempting to sway attention away from Sherlock slightly.

"So…whips and leather eh?"

John snorted slightly and Mycroft spoke.

"Yes, she provides, shall we say, recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it. These are all from her website…"

He handed over an envelope which Sherlock promptly opened. The pictures inside were of the same woman, beautiful and mysterious, in revealing – or no - clothing and erotic poses, posing with a riding crop and looking at the camera with 'come hither' eyes.

"And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs?"

"You're very quick Mr Holmes." Smiled Harry. Demi raised an eyebrow.

"It's hardly that difficult to guess. The general rule in society today is photographs or it didn't happen. The only reason to be truly afraid of this woman is if she had photographs that might make it into the wrong hands. That or a recorded phone call, but she seems to be a more hands-on type of girl."

Sherlock may have been smiling, but she could have imagined it.

"Photographs of whom?" He questioned. Mycroft and Harry looked at each other and back to Sherlock.

"A person of significance to my employer." He said delicately, "We'd prefer not to say any more at this time."

John frowned.

"You can't tell us anything?"

They all turned expectantly to Mycroft, who took a deep breath.

"I can tell you it's a young person. A young, female person."

Demi's eyebrows went up as she flipped through the photographs again and Sherlock spoke.

"How many photographs?"

"A considerable number, apparently."

"Do Miss Adler and this _young female person _appear in these photographs together?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Yes they do."

"And I'm assuming they appear in a number of compromising scenarios?"

John's teacup was frozen half way to his lips as he watched the exchange.

"An imaginative range, we are assured."

Demi snorted.

"I'll bet…" She looked up and blushed at the eyes on her, "Sorry."

"Aptly put Demitria, John you might want to put that cup back on the saucer now."

He did so with a 'clink'.

"Can you help us Mr Holmes?"

"How?"

"Will you take the case?"

"What case? Pay her, now and in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, know when you are beaten." He reached back to where his coat was resting on the sofa back.

"She doesn't _want _anything." Spoke Mycroft sharply. "She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favour."

There was a moment's silence and Sherlock spoke.

"Oh, a power play. A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a dominatrix, ooh this is getting rather fun isn't it?"

Demi smiled slightly.

"Certainly a step up from a chubby man fainting in the kitchen."

"Sherlock, Demi…" Admonished John. Sherlock looked at his brother.

"Hmm. Where is she?"

"In London, currently. She's staying…"

"Text me the details." He took Demitria's arm and pulled her upright before grabbing his coat. "I'll be in touch by the end of the day."

"Do you really think you'll have news by then?"

Sherlock turned, buttoning his jacket.

"No, I think I'll have the photographs."

He stared evenly at the sandy haired man who spoke.

"One can only hope you're as good as you seem to think."

Sherlock cast a glance over the man's attire and both Demi and John sighed. He was blatantly about to-

"I'll need some equipment of course."

"Anything you need, I'll have it set over."

"Can I have a box of matches?"

"I'm sorry?" The man looked immensely confused…as did Demi and John.

"Or your cigarette lighter, either will do." He held out a hand.

"I don't smoke."

"No I know you don't but your employer does."

Demi and John frowned and looked to each other. Demi even looked to Mycroft and smiled as he rolled his eyes.

"We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact Mr Holmes." He spoke, handing over the lighter.

"I'm not the commonwealth." Sherlock shook his head, snatching up the lighter.

"And that's as modest as he gets. Pleasure to meet you." Nodded John. Demi went to agree but found her upper arm in Sherlock's grip once more. Honestly, he didn't have to _drag _her everywhere, she'd quite willingly follow.

"Laters!" Called Sherlock to the palace at large as they rounded the corner, leaving Demi only enough time to call a quick 'Bye Mycroft!' before the door slammed behind them.

**Review!**


	6. Chapter 6

They were sat in a taxi, Demi opposite the two men, when John broke the silence.

"Okay, the smoking, how did you know?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"The evidence was right under your nose john. As ever, you see but do not observe."

"Observe what?" He asked as Sherlock reached into his coat.

"The ash tray." He flipped it in the air as Demi and John laughed before he slipped it back into his inner coat pocket, smirking.

X

Demi was clicking away on her laptop, checking her emails as Sherlock threw things around his bedroom. So far she'd seen a policeman's helmet, at least two of Inspector Lestrade's police IDs and a heeled shoe zoom past his door, only to hit the wall with a dull 'thud'. John's frown deepened with the noise of every impact.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going into battle John, I need the right armour!" Sherlock called back, stepping into vision wearing a luminous jacket and looking up. Demi shook her head.

"Too obvious."

He nodded and disappeared.

X

Back in a taxi – it did occur to Demi that the majority of her time appeared to be spent in taxis and she cringed at the thought of how much it cost – John spoke.

"So what's the plan?" He looked to his right, where Demi and Sherlock were crammed.

"We know her address." Demi spoke, "Mycroft texted me."

Sherlock muttered something along the lines of 'Of course he did' and looked out of the window.

"So we're literally going to ring her doorbell?"

"Exactly right John. Just here please." The latter half was directed at the cab driver who slammed on the brakes and accepted his payment, allowing them enough time to leap out of the taxi before he sped off again. Stood on the pavement, John looked over to Sherlock again.

"You didn't even change your clothes."

"Then it's time to add a splash of colour."

He pulled off his scarf and threw it to Demi as they walked down an alleyway.

"Are we here?" John inquired, looking around them.

"Two streets away but this will do." Responded Sherlock, "Punch me in the face."

"What?" Demanded his flatmates, staring at him like he'd just announced he was eloping to Brazil with Anderson.

"Punch you?" John repeated.

"Yes. Punch me in the face. Didn't you hear me?"

"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking. But it's usually subtext."

Demi nodded.

"It's true."

Sherlock paused to look oh so slightly wounded before facing John again.

"Oh for god's sakes…" His right fist shot out and caught John across the jaw. Demi gasped, blue eyes bulging and hands tightening on the scarf in her hands. John himself, once he had recovered, walloped Sherlock as hard as he could with his balled fist.

"Thank you." Sherlock spoke as he stood straight. But John had other ideas, punching him again before clinging onto his neck like an angry monkey, causing Sherlock's face to go bright pink as he struggled to breathe.

"Demitria!" He called out in a strained voice, "If you'd kindly remove John from my-" he paused to struggle for breath. "Throat!"

"I don't think I could if I wanted to." She responded honestly.

"You want to remember Sherlock, I was a soldier, I killed people!"

"You were a doctor!" Sherlock argued.

"I had bad days!"

Demi intervened and yanked John off of Sherlock's back, checking on him quickly before going over to the taller man and taking his face in her hands.

"Christ, Sherlock are you okay?"

Her bright blue eyes drank in the lines of his face, the bruises and scrapes on his cheeks and neck, and finally met his eyes as her thumb stroked the most obvious graze, which was bleeding. Sherlock nodded silently. Demitria's hands were cool on the sore flesh, her forehead furrowed in concern. Her tongue darted out to wet her scarlet lips as she nodded to herself and stepped back, releasing his face from her grasp. Instantly, the scrapes stung as if mourning the loss of the cool contact of her fingers.

John cleared his throat.

"Right. What now?"

X

They watched from a few feet away as Sherlock – now donning a cardboard strip in his collar in his current 'disguise' as a vicar – spoke into the intercom of the house.

"He's too good at that. It's scary." Demi spoke quietly. John smiled.

"Yes well if he wasn't we'd be entering by force."

They followed as Sherlock was allowed into the house. John spoke for them.

"I saw it all happen, it's okay I'm a doctor. This is my friend."

Demi smiled her 'normal person' smile and nodded.

"Thought we'd sit with him until the police came. Have you got a first aid kit?"

The red haired woman before them didn't look entirely convinced by their act but gave no hints otherwise, only nodding.

"In the kitchen."

John and Demi nodded.

"Thank you."

They entered a large, showy kitchen as Sherlock headed to the sitting room around the corner. John had Demi find a bowl and fill it with water, grabbing a cloth as they went to find him.

"Right this should do it…" He stopped suddenly, Demi running into him and the water in the bowl she held slopping onto his back slightly with the impact.

There, in the middle of the room, was Irene Adler. She wore nothing but a pair of heeled shoes and had Sherlock's white 'vicar collar' between her teeth. Demi nudged John to stop him staring and pointedly glowered at Sherlock.

"Ah, Demitria, what a pleasure." Greeted Irene, smiling. "Please, sit down. Or if you'd like some tea I can call the maid."

"We had some at the palace." Demi bit out, sitting beside Sherlock.

"I know."

"Clearly." Spoke Sherlock as Irene sat in an armchair.

There was a moment's silence and Irene spoke.

"Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr Holmes? However hard you try, it's always a self portrait."

Demi snorted.

"Last time I checked Sherlock wasn't a vicar with a bleeding face."

Irene smiled again.

"No, I think he's damaged, delusional and believes in a higher power. In his case, it's himself." She leaned forwards. "Oh and Mr Holmes, somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face I'd avoid your nose and teeth too."

John laughed sarcastically.

"Could you put something on please? Anything at all…er…napkin?" He held up the cloth Demi had dropped on the sofa arm.

"Why? Are you feeling exposed?" Inquired Irene, leaning forwards.

"I don't think John knows where to look." Sherlock said, removing his coat.

"No, I think he knows exactly where." She stood in front of Demi, facing John. "Not sure about you, however." She turned to Sherlock, who handed her his coat.

"If I wanted to look at naked women I'd borrow John's laptop." Sherlock spoke calmly. Irene raised an eyebrow, looking down at Demitria who was sat silently on the sofa, pointedly not looking at anyone in the room.

"You do borrow my laptop." Responded John, ignorant to Demi's unnatural silence.

"I confiscate it."

"Well never mind," Interrupted Irene, "We've got better things to talk about. Now tell me, I need to know, how was it done?" She sat down next to Demi who stiffened slightly.

"What?" Asked Sherlock.

"The hiker with the bashed in head." Irene answered, taking her shoes off. "How was he killed?" She turned to her left. "Do you know?"

Demi rolled her eyes.

"Yes. But that's not why we're here."

"No, no, no you're here about the photographs. But that's never going to happen." She turned to Demi and smirked. "Though I'd be more than willing to make some of our own."

Demi stared and blinked slowly.

"Sorry I have a boyfriend."

"So that's what you're calling him now?"

John cut in, frowning.

"Sorry, that story hasn't been on the news yet…how do you know about it?"

"I know one of the policemen. Well, I know what he likes."

John glanced around the room. Sherlock was watching Irene as one might watch a snake they suspected was poisonous and didn't want to allow too close to them but didn't want out of their sight. Demi was alternating between glancing witheringly at the woman beside her and glancing even more venomously at Sherlock.

"Oh." He said, clearing his throat as all eyes turned to him, "And you like policemen?"

Irene smiled smugly.

"I like detective stories. And detectives. Brainy's the new sexy." She turned to Demi again, "Isn't it?"

Demi remained steadfastly silent. Sherlock coughed.

"Position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire, that and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head, that's all you need to know." He paced as he spoke.

"Okay, tell me, how was he murdered?" Questioned Irene, leaning forwards. Demi smirked.

"He wasn't."

Sherlock looked momentarily miffed that she'd beaten him to the punch line. Irene just looked at her like she'd grown two heads.

"You don't think it was murder?"

Demi looked up and met Sherlock's eyes, her smirk widening slightly as his pale lips twitched upwards in what could have been a pride.

"We know it wasn't"

"How?" Irene's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Same way we know the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this room."

Her expression was suddenly guarded as she clutched Sherlock's coat around herself. Demi couldn't blame her to be honest, it was freezing in there.

"Okay but how?"

"So they are in this room? Thank you. John, Demitria, man the door, let no-one in."

They sighed but obediently got up and left the room, John setting the bowl of water gently on a table before closing the door behind them. Through said door, Sherlock could be heard – for lack of better phrasing – showing off.

"Two men alone in the countryside, several yards apart, and one car."

"Oh…I-I though you were looking for the photos now?" Irene sounded tense, confused perhaps. "No, no, looking takes ages. I'm just going to find them." Sherlock responded coolly. "But you're moderately clever and we've got a moment so let's pass the time. Two men, a car, nobody else…" They stopped listening for a while and looked around the entrance lobby they found themselves in. Demi spotted a lingerie catalogue on a nearby table and picket it up, flicking through the pages idly.

"Huh. Figures. Wow there's some nice stuff in here…"

She leaned against the door, listening in on the conversation with vague amusement.

"Any moment now something is going to happen, what?"

"The hiker is going to die."

"No, that's the result. What _happens?_"

"I don't understand."

"Oh, well, try to."

"Why?"

"Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression. Stop boring me and think, it's the new sexy." He finished, mimicking her voice.

"The car is going to backfire."

"There's going to be a loud noise."

Taking this as her hint, Demi fished around in the seemingly bottomless pockets of her leather jacket and withdrew a pack of gum, a rubber band, two lottery tickets and a lighter. Setting all but the lighter back inside, she clicked the lighter once, twice, and a tiny orange flame burst from the opening, wavering in the chilly draught making its way across the hall. Holding it to the catalogue, now rolled into a more easily portable tube, she waited a few moments for it to light and waved it around for a moment to start it smoking. John frowned.

"What are you doing?"

She looked at him and grinned, brandishing the lingerie catalogue like a sordid Olympic torch.

"Helping."

She then proceeded to wander around the hall, wafting the flaming catalogue all around her so the smoke curled like thick, acrid fog around her figure. Sherlock's voice rumbled through the closed door.

"Oh, noises are important. Noises can tell you everything. For instance…"

The smoke alarm began beeping violently and a knowing glint appeared in John's eyes. Then again, they might just have been watering; the magazine smoke was wafting his way. Sherlock called through the door.

"Alright Demitria you can turn it off now….Demitria!"

"Yes! I'm trying!" She shouted back, throwing it to the marble floor and stomping on it with her boot until all that remained was a small pile of ashes and a half burned image of a woman in a silk thong and garters. As John fanned the smoke away from the nearest alarm, a bullet whizzed through the air and shot it into tiny plastic shards, effectively cutting off the noise, before the man holding the gun and his three henchmen followed suit, pointing the guns at Demi and John. John nodded as he raised his hands.

"Thank you."

One of the men opened the door to the room where Irene and Sherlock remained, herding Demi and John in as he spoke.

"Hands behind your head, on the floor, keep it still!"

His accent was that of an American and even Sherlock seemed surprised as John and Demi were forced to kneel.

"Sorry Sherlock…ow!" Demi winced as her knee hit the marble flooring harder than anticipated.

"Miss Adler, on the floor!" The American man commanded, and she knelt beside Demi.

"Don't you want me on the floor too?" Inquired Sherlock.

"No, sir, I want you to open the safe." He pointed the gun at Sherlock, who didn't seem remotely phased.

"American. Interesting, why would you care?"

"Sir, the safe, now please."

"I don't know the code." He responded coolly, hands by his head.

"We've been listening, she said she told you."

"Well if you'd been listening you'd know that she didn't!" Retorted Demi from the floor, scowling as the barrel of the gun held to her head pressed into it slightly.

"I'm assuming I missed something. But from Mr Holmes' reputation I'm assuming he did not."

John looked around desperately and gestured towards Irene.

"For god's sake, she's the one who knows the code! Ask her!"

The American raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, sir, she also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm I've learned not to trust this woman."

Irene looked up.

"Mr Holmes doesn't-"

"Shut up! One more word out of you, just one, and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, would be no hardship." He paused. "Mr archer, on the count of three, shoot Miss Blake."

Demi's head snapped up.

"What?"

"I don't know the code." Insisted Sherlock.

"One." The gun was pressed into Demi's neck and she was forced forwards slightly.

"I don't know the code." Reiterated Sherlock, an edge of what might have been panic to his words.

"Two."

"She didn't tell me I DON'T KNOW IT!" Insisted Sherlock.

"I'm prepared to believe you any second now." Smiled the American man as Sherlock looked desperately to Irene who looked down at herself, "Three."

"No! Stop!" Shouted Sherlock, turning to the safe once he was certain they weren't going to shoot Demitria and typing a code into the keypad of the safe. It clicked open and Demi sagged in relief.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes. Open it, please."

He turned the handle before facing John, Demitria and Adler.

"Vatican cameos!" He announced, ducking as he opened the safe door and a bullet, then two, whizzed out into the room, shooting the man behind John as both Demi and Irene made use of their pointed elbows and made short work of the two behind them. Sherlock snatched the gun from the ringleader's hands and proceeded to knock him out with a sound hit to the temple from the butt of the gun. Demi snatched up a gun from the fallen man, kicking him in the face for good measure, and pointed it at him to make sure he stayed down.

"Do you mind?" Sherlock requested, gesturing to the remaining conscious assailant. Irene shrugged.

"Not at all."

She knocked him out swiftly as Sherlock reached into the safe and withdrew a phone. John checked the pulse of the man who'd been shot.

"He's dead."

"Thank you." Irene announced loudly in Sherlock's direction, "You were very...observant. I'm flattered."

"Don't be." Responded Sherlock. "There'll be more of them, they'll be keeping an eye on the building."

He marched out, followed by John and Demi.

"We should call the police." John announced as they stepped out of the house.

"Yes." Sherlock responded quickly, snatching the gun from Demi's hand and firing four shots into the air, terrifying a passing driver. "On their way."

Demi giggled.

"You're mad."

He grinned before walking back in. John rolled his eyes.

"Oh for God's sake, please don't encourage him."

"Oh shut up, it's quicker than calling." She grinned. Sherlock nodded.

"Check the rest of the house John, see how they got in."

John darted off and Demi followed Sherlock into the room where Adler still stood in his coat, looking frightened.

"Well Demitria, that's the knighthood in the bag I'd say, wouldn't you agree?" He inquired coolly, flipping Irene's phone from one hand to the other. Demi rolled her eyes but smiled all the same.

"The last thing you need is a bloody knighthood to make yourself feel more important…"

"That's mine." Stated Irene, holding out her hand. Sherlock turned it on and sighed when he saw the lock screen.

"All the photographs are on here I presume?"

"I have copies of course." She replied defensively, voice sharp.

"No you don't, you'll have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection . Unless the contents of this phone were provably unique you wouldn't be able to sell them."

Irene dropped her arm.

"Well who said I'm selling?"

Demi looked around.

"Well why were these guys interested?" She asked, gesturing to the men on the floor, "Whatever's on that phone is clearly not just naked photographs."

"That camera phone is my life, I'd die before I let you take it. It's my protection."

John called them from upstairs and Sherlock slipped the phone into his pocket.

"It was."

X

The red haired woman lay sprawled across the floor. John checked her pulse as his flatmates walked in, scantily clad dominatrix in tow. He gestured to the window.

"They must have come in this way. Don't worry she's just out cold."

Irene sighed.

"Well God knows she's used to that. There's a back door and a side entrance. You two had better check them hadn't you?"

Demi bristled as Irene told her what to do but when Sherlock nodded she stormed off, John following silently behind.

X

As they re-entered the room, Sherlock was laying on the floor, twitching occasionally. Demi ran over and knelt beside him.

"Sherlock?" She turned to Irene, "What the hell have you done to him?"

"Oh don't worry I've used it on loads of my friends." Irene replied airily from where she sat on the windowsill. John knelt opposite Demi. "Try not to let him choke on his own vomit, it makes for a very unattractive corpse."

Demi pushed Sherlock's hair back from his eyes and looked worriedly down at him.

"You know I was wrong about him. He did know where to look." Added Irene, "The key code to my safe."

John frowned.

"What was it?"

She smiled.

"My measurements."

With that she dropped from the window, clasping the curtain pull and using it to lower herself onto the street. John ran to the window as sirens approached but she was gone. Demi lifted Sherlock's head onto her lap as his eyes began to flutter shut, torn between wanting to strangle him and wanting to save him.

"Sherlock?" Her voice sounded far away, "Sherlock can you hear me?"

**Review!**


	7. Chapter 7

THUD!

"Watch his head!" Demi commanded as they attempted to lug Sherlock up the stairs. John was walking backwards precariously, hoisting Sherlock by his armpits, and Demi brought up the rear with his legs. Mrs Hudson peered out of her flat and frowned.

"Demi sweetheart, what's happened to Sherlock?"

"He was drugged by a naked dominatrix who ran off with his coat." She responded. Sherlock chose that moment to half open his eyes and mumble incoherently. Whatever Irene had given him, he'd been drifting in and out of consciousness for about half an hour. After a quick check up from the ambulance crew, it was agreed that the drug would wear off and that it would be alright for them to take him home to rest. Mrs Hudson frowned again.

"Well if he needs anything, just let me know…I'll make some tea."

They nodded and she scuttled off as they rounded the corner, attempting to fold Sherlock's seemingly endless limbs so that they avoided another collision with the precarious looking wall plaster. John swore as he stubbed his toe and Sherlock giggled groggily before muttering about a boomerang as they slowly made their way past the miniature laboratory he'd set up on the kitchen table – from which a worrying sizzling, hissing noise was emanating – and managed to open the door to his room after much juggling of limbs. The jostling movement brought Sherlock as close to full consciousness as he had been for the best part of an hour now and he blinked sleepily.

"Hullo Demitria…" He spoke sluggishly, voice slurred. Demi sighed.

"Hello Sherlock."

They managed to lower him onto the bed and stepped back, exhausted, as he rolled onto his front. She was certain she heard him mutter the word 'sexy' before drifting out again. John looked at Demi and they laughed breathlessly, leaning forwards as they attempted to recover their breath.

"Oh God I hope Lestrade puts that video on YouTube…"

Demi giggled.

"He'd kill us all…oh but it would be so worth it."

They giggled like school children for a moment more and Sherlock wiggled on the bed, grabbing Demi's coat and tugging as she tried to move away.

"Demitriaaaa…." He whined as she tugged again, "Don't leave…stay heeere…"

She tugged experimentally and he tugged back harder, frowning. She looked to John, who shrugged. Sherlock's grip relaxed as he drifted under again and Demi sighed.

"Right, the doctors said he'd need water so I'll get some of that and come back. Don't want to leave him unattended…"

John nodded.

"I'll go explain to Mrs Hudson…"

A few seconds later, John was heading downstairs and Demi was filling a glass with water when she saw something fly across the doorway of Sherlock's room and hit the wall with a 'poof'. Peering curiously inside, she saw his usually immaculate suit trousers lying in a crumpled heap by the door.

"Oh Lord he's taking his clothes off…" She muttered as she walked in, setting the water on the side table. Sherlock was wrestling with the button on one of his shirt sleeves and she stilled his hands.

"Too hot…" He grumbled, and she sighed, walking over to the window and opening it.

"Better?"

He nodded grudgingly and waited for her next move, eyes half closed and bleary as he lay back against the pillow. Demi tucked him under the blanket and lay beside him, watching his face carefully as he relaxed once more.

"You're a bloody nightmare you are." She spoke to the unconscious Sherlock who was sprawled gracelessly on his back, mouth slightly open. "And don't think you've gotten away with the whole measurements fiasco because you haven't." He seemed unmoved by this – possibly because he was unconscious – and she gave him a nudge. He grunted slightly and muttered 'backfire' before curling up on his side like a toddler. Demi lay beside him, eyes fixed on his sleeping face.

"You know, you're more interesting when you're conscious." She noted, sighing when he didn't respond. She closed her eyes as she lay there, the only noises in the room their gentle breathing – though in his drugged state Sherlock's was slightly heavier – and the muffled noises of the London traffic.

X

Demi woke abruptly at a nearby noise. Upon opening one eye she saw that Sherlock was still sleeping off the effects of the drug, though his breathing came easier now than it had done.

So what – or more aptly, who – had made the noise?

There came a nearby shuffling noise and Demi closed her eyes to the point where she could see nothing but a thin line between her eyelashes. She rolled, as if in her sleep, to face the open window and saw the mystery culprit. Irene was clothed now, though bare footed, shoes clutched in one hand, to avoid making too much noise and risk waking either Demitria or Sherlock. As Demi watched she walked over, leaning over Demi to stroke Sherlock's unruly black curls back from his forehead as he frowned in his sleep.

"Hush now, it's okay. I'm only returning your coat."

She was gone in an instant, onto the fire escape that ran past the sandwich shop downstairs and away. Sherlock awoke with a quiet grunt at the rattling of the metal, eyes glossy and jaw slightly loose. The bed was weighed down slightly to his right, and upon further inspection, Demitria lay atop the sheets, shivering slightly in the cool of the open window. As he reached out to wake her, she rolled over quickly, apparently surprised that he was awake.

"You're awake!"

"Excellent deduction…" His voice was slurred and he flexed his jaw to rid it of its looseness, "Why am I not wearing trousers?"

"You took them off while drugged. Not my doing I swear."

Apparently that thought was slightly embarrassing, as a slight pink flush spread across her cheeks.

"How did I get here?" He asked, his voice still thick.

"Well I don't suppose you remember much, you weren't making much sense when you were conscious…oh I should warn you, Lestrade filmed you."

He nodded to himself and shifted closer, leaning over her in an attempt to reach his trousers – in a crumpled heap by the door. Demitria's cheeks flared crimson at this and he could feel her freeze momentarily beneath him.

"Sherlock what are you…"

Before she finished her question, he lost his balance and they both toppled onto the floor in a tangle of limbs and sheets. John's voice could be heard getting closer to the room, accompanied by footsteps.

"Everything alright in there?"

He opened the door to see Sherlock lying on his back with Demi straddling him. Sherlock's trousers lay by the door and the two of them were surrounded by sheets. John's eyes widened perceptibly and he looked away hurriedly.

"Right…um…"

Demi hurried to correct herself, standing up abruptly and almost tripping again as her feet tangled on the sheets.

"Not what it looks like?" She tried, helping Sherlock up as she did so. John looked unconvinced so she changed tactics. "He's awake!"

"I can see that…"

There was a moment's silence before Sherlock looked around the room.

"Where is she?" He asked, mainly to himself.

"Who?" Demi, glad the focus had shifted from herself, looked to Sherlock.

"The woman, that woman."

"What woman?" John asked as Demi's eyes narrowed and her lips pursed.

"The woman! The woman woman!" Sherlock announced, as if what he'd said clarified everything perfectly. Demi rolled her eyes.

"Adler." She explained. John's eyes widened in understanding.

"Oh Irene, she disappeared, no one saw her."

Sherlock began looking wildly about the room, crawling to look beneath the bed.

"She wasn't here Sherlock." John tried, sighing and heaving him upright. "No, no, back to bed." He all but threw Sherlock back onto the covers, "You'll be fine in the morning, just sleep."

"Of course I'll be fine, I am fine. I'm absolutely fine." Sherlock announced into his pillow.

"Yes, you're great. Now, I'll be next door if you need me. Demi, are you coming?"

She shook her head.

"I'll stay here before he goes on an Adler hunt via the window."

John nodded.

"Right."

He left the room, door closing behind him, and Demi tucked Sherlock beneath the covers before sitting on the bed beside him. She pulled her phone from her pocket and checked her emails for about two seconds before a breathy, and rather inappropriate, moan erupted from the far side of the bedroom. Sherlock opened his eyes.

"That wasn't you was it?"

She raised her eyebrows and shoved him.

"No! I think it was you."

"Pardon?"

He sat up and followed Demitria's line of vision. His coat hung on the back of the door, the pocket glowing blue.

He had a message.

"How did that get there?"

Demitria refused to meet his gaze.

"She must have dropped it off while we were asleep…" She jumped out of the bed and retrieved Sherlock's phone from the coat, tapping the screen and opening the message.

"What does it say?" He asked, attempting to stand up only to be forced back down by the hand that wasn't holding the phone.

"Till the next time, Mr. Holmes. Great, now she has your number. And probably mine." She threw his phone onto the bed and sat down heavily beside him.

"You don't like her." He noted.

"Is it that obvious?" Her voice was heavy with sarcasm as she scrolled down her emails list and replied to one from Molly. "Get some sleep, you're still wearing off those drugs."

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	8. Chapter 8

Having slept off the last of the drugs in his system, Sherlock sat in the living room the next morning, flipping through a newspaper as John and Demi ate toast. Mrs Hudson was bustling around in their kitchen, filling the dishwasher despite the protests of her niece, and Mycroft was stood, looking imposing, by the fireplace. Demi watched the conversation interestedly as she drained the last of her coffee.

"The photographs are perfectly safe." Sherlock didn't even look up from his paper.

"In the hands of a fugitive sex worker." Demi had to agree with Mycroft, the situation wasn't ideal.

"She's not interested in blackmail. She wants…protection, for some reason."

Demi rolled her eyes.

"Well yes Sherlock, someone who has a top secret mirror safe, government secrets and apparently has enemies in America is likely to want some form of protection."

Sherlock ignored her and looked at his brother.

"I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?"

Mycroft was frowning.

"How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our hands are tied."

Demi erupted into a fit of giggles which she attempted to stifle with her hand.

"Your choice of words is to be applauded." Sherlock spoke, eyeing the giggling Demitria with vague amusement. "You see how this works, that camera phone is her get-out-of-jail-free card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft."

"Though not the way she treats royalty." Added John. Demi smirked – an expression which dropped suddenly off of her face when Sherlock's phone moaned.

"What was that?" Asked John. Demi just glowered at Sherlock.

"Text." Responded the consulting detective, folding the paper.

"But what was that noise?" John went on.

"Irene Adler." Demi answered, continuing to glare evenly at Sherlock, "Why haven't you changed that?"

Sherlock ignored her once more as he picked up his phone.

"Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft? Before you sent us in there? CIA trained killers, I think, excellent guess."

"Yeah thanks for that Mycroft." John spoke up, Demi remaining silent on the sofa, "We all were almost shot."

Mrs Hudson appeared from the kitchen.

"It's a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that. Family is all we have left in the end, Mycroft Holmes!" She announced, picking up bowls and ruffling Demi's hair good naturedly.

"Oh, shut up, Mrs Hudson!" Mycroft responded angrily, prompting Sherlock, Demitria and John to glare up at him in anger and shout back in unison.

"MYCROFT!"

He froze at the joint volume of the three of them, and Demi patted her aunt's arm comfortingly.

"Apologies." Muttered Mycroft.

"Thank you." Mrs Hudson replied abruptly.

"Though do in fact shut up." Added Sherlock. Demi batted his shoulder as the phone moaned again.

"Oh it's a bit rude, that noise, isn't it?" Asked Mrs Hudson, her eyes taking in the furious expression on Demi's face before she left.

"There's nothing you can do and nothing she will do as far as I can see."

Mycroft sighed.

"I can put maximum surveillance on her?"

"Why bother? You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her username is 'TheWhipHand.'"

"Yes, most amusing." Replied Mycroft, looking far from amused. His phone rang and he left the room to answer the call. "Excuse me."

"Why does your phone make that noise?" John asked.

"Because the woman who recently gave us all an eyeful of exactly what she has to offer personalised his text tone so that every time she texts him-" Demi cut off as his phone moaned again, "That happens." She finished frostily. Mrs Hudson walked in again.

"Could you turn that phone down a bit?"

Mycroft re-entered.

"Bond air is go, check with the Coventry lot, talk later."

"What else does she have?" Sherlock asked, "The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There's more."

Demi frowned.

"Please don't tell us she has naked pictures of George Bush."

John almost choked on his toast.

"Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours, Sherlock. From now on, you will stay out of this."

"Oh will I?"

"Yes Sherlock you will." Demi replied from the sofa.

"Now if you'll excuse me I have a very long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend."

"Do give her my love." Sherlock responded, picking up his violin and playing the national anthem leisurely. Demi sighed.

"Bye Mycroft, sorry about Adler…"

He shook his head.

"It's not your doing Demi, I wouldn't worry too much about it."

Just as he turned to leave Demi started.

"Oh, Mycroft, I almost forgot. What would you like for Christmas?"

Sherlock frowned and increased the volume of his playing as Mycroft smiled.

"Surprise me, you're very good at that."

She smiled but nodded.

"I'll see what I can do."

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Snow was falling outside as Demi leaned against the doorframe and watched Sherlock play 'We wish you a merry Christmas' on his violin. She wore a black dress that just about reached the middle of her thighs and sparkled, glinting under the gaze of the Christmas lights she and John had spent an hour carefully arranging. Her hair was elegantly twisted at the nape of her neck and pinned up and a pair of sparkling blue earrings – a thirtieth birthday present from her aunt – hung either side of her face and accentuated the glowing sapphire of her eyes. Sherlock finished with a flourish.

"Lovely, Sherlock! That was lovely!" Mrs Hudson applauded from the armchair she was perched on.

"Marvellous." Nodded John. Demi just clapped, smiling slightly. It was Christmas, therefore she had to brush aside the fact that her 'boyfriend' or perhaps 'partner' or maybe even 'person she was completely besotted with who seemed to see her as a stand in skull and not much else' had been receiving texts from a high class dominatrix for several weeks now. But making her aunt happy made her happy, and seeing Sherlock and Demi on good terms always made Aunty Jean happy. Speaking of which, her aunt appeared to be slightly tipsy on the mulled wine Demi and John had spent the afternoon perfecting, which John was currently handing round.

"I wish you could have worn the antlers!" She announced, and Demi smiled into her drink. She sighed as Sherlock got Jeanette's name wrong again.

"No, no I can do this. Sarah was the doctor and then there was the one with the spots and then the one with the nose…who was after the boring teacher?"

"No-one." Replied John's girlfriend frostily.

"Jeanette! Ah, process of elimination."

Demi turned as she heard someone walking up the stairs and grinned as Molly appeared with bags in tow.

"Molls! Merry Christmas!" She announced, taking a few of the bags Molly was struggling to manoeuvre and kissing her cheek, "Mulled wine's ready if you want it?"

"Ooh yes please!" She grinned as she peeled off her coat. Her dress was black too, with a line of sparkling fake diamonds along the top and spaghetti straps holding it up.

"You look great!" grinned Demi as John muttered 'Holy Mary' and Lestrade's jaw dropped with an audible 'pop'.

"Thanks! Thought I'd show it off. Christmas drinks then?"

Mrs Hudson nodded.

"It's the one day a year where the boys have to be nice to me, and Demi's always been good at mulled wine."

Lestrade offered Molly a drink and she blushed. Demi half-smiled. Lestrade's wife wasn't the nicest woman – she'd cheated on him twice – and Molly was finally getting over her crush on Sherlock, piece by piece. Demi turned as she overheard John and Sherlock bickering again.

"You've got a photograph of me wearing _that hat_?"

"People like the hat."

"No they don't…what people?"

After a brief hiccup in which one of Molly's jokes didn't go down particularly well, conversation seemed to even out. Molly stood by Demi and spoke to Lestrade quietly.

"I wasn't expecting to see you, I thought you were going to be in Dorset for Christmas?"

"That's first thing in the morning, me and the wife, we're back together. It's all sorted." He sounded very tired, but smiled.

"No she's sleeping with a PE teacher." Sherlock noted, eyes still on the screen. Demi sighed loudly.

"Sherlock!" Her annoyance was palpable. In order to avoid too much attention being placed on the void forming between the two – she had been a very good listener at work and understood perfectly how Demi felt – Molly tried to restart conversation.

"And John I hear you're visiting your sister?"

"Yeah."

"Demi was complaining…" She paused as Demi swatted her playfully and giggled, "I mean saying."

"First time ever she's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze."

"Nope." Sherlock corrected.

"Shut up Sherlock!" Demi and John's combined protest warned him he was being an ass, but he still persevered.

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him."

"What? Sorry, what?" Molly frowned.

"In fact you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."

"Sherlock, shut up and have a drink." Tried Lestrade. Demi was glaring flatly at Sherlock as he continued.

"Oh, come on, surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag. Perfectly wrapped, with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best. The paper is familiar…Demitria helped you wrap it, the shade of red matches her lipstick – a colour she is famous for choosing, perhaps subconsciously, but it is associated with herself. It's for someone special then. And you're serious about him, suggested by the fact that you're giving him a gift at all…"

"Yeah, some people remember to buy gifts." Demi mumbled, downing her drink, "Sherlock enough!"

She ripped the gift out of his hands and gave it to Molly who was close to tears as she spoke.

"You always say such horrible things. Always. To me, to John, even to Demi. Always." Molly spoke.

Sherlock looked away then back at her.

"I am sorry, forgive me. Merry Christmas Molly Hooper."

He leaned to kiss her cheek. As he stepped back, Irene's breathy moan echoed through the flat. Molly started.

"That wasn't me!"

"No, it was me."

"My God, really?" Burst Lestrade from the kitchen.

"My phone." He responded.

"Fifty seven." John piped up, "Fifty seven of those texts. The one's I've heard at least."

Demi downed her drink before speaking.

"Eighty five. And there I was thinking that this would be my first Christmas spent with someone who loves me, I guess not. I need some air."

She picked up her jacket from a nearby chair and stormed out of the flat, leaving a deafening silence in her wake.

**Review!**


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft Holmes wasn't expecting company. He had been invited to the Christmas party at Baker Street by Demitria, but Sherlock had wasted no time in informing him that she was the only person who wanted him there. As attractive the prospect of spending an evening with Demitria Blake was, his presence would merely have alienated her from her peers.

So when she knocked on his door at half past nine that evening, he knew something was wrong. Her carefully applied makeup was running in streams down her face and her thin jacket and dress – which was bordering on indecent in its length – were doing nothing to protect her from the snow that was falling over London. She was shivering and crying and he knew exactly who was to blame.

"Hi Mycroft…I'm not interrupting anything am I?"

He shook his head.

"No, do come in, you'll freeze to death out there."

She shuffled in, kicking off her ridiculously high heels and peeling off her jacket. The sudden drop in height made her look smaller, more vulnerable, and he led her to the fireplace in the main room of his home.

"Sit here, I'll get you a blanket. Would you like anything to drink? I think I have mulled wine somewhere…gift from Harry."

She smiled slightly.

"That would be nice…thank you, I know I'm imposing."

"Of course you're not. I'm hardly about to leave you in the cold on Christmas day."

He left and she warmed her hands by the fire, feeling the iciness slowly thaw in her hands and legs. Mycroft reappeared with the promised blanket before fetching two glasses of warm, expensive, mulled wine. He sat in the chair opposite her and watched silently as she brushed her hair back and sniffed.

"I must look like a wreck…I've never been an attractive crier, it's always horrific." She laughed slightly before her face dulled, "Sherlock has made a point of pointing that out at least twice."

"What's he done?" Mycroft questioned. She sighed.

"It's more what he hasn't done. We've been together a while now, not that anyone would know it, and I just feel like I'm only there to fill the time between cases. I'm not even very good at that. I mean not buying gifts I can understand – he's Sherlock after all – but…I've turned down many a date because of Sherlock. And these guys…they compliment me and smile and don't point out my every flaw, and Sherlock just looks right through me. I think I could stand there in front of him completely starkers and he'd not notice."

She sniffed again and gulped the wine.

"My brother never has been very in touch with his emotions."

"What emotions? He doesn't care. He never has. I'm just deluding myself thinking he could love me." She shook her head, "Sorry, look at me, I'm here whining about my life and ruining your Christmas day …did thingy get you your present? I forget what her name is now…"

"She's going by Natalie, and yes I did, though I haven't opened it yet. I did intend to drop yours off later this evening but…well there's no time like the present."

He fetched a small box from beside the mantle and handed it to her. She smiled.

"Shall I open it now?"

He smiled.

"It's your gift, you can open it when you see fit."

She opened the small, square box with a sharp intake of breath. Nestled in the velvet lining was a necklace. It reflected the light of the fire in thousands of tiny, flickering facets as her fingers stroked over the large blue sapphire. The chain was made of silver, embellished with tiny crystalline gems which only added to the overall effect.

"Wow…Mycroft it's beautiful."

He looked rather pleased with himself.

"Matches your eyes. A peculiar blue, your irises, not like your close family in the slightest…"

"Blue eyes run in dad's side of the family, aunty Jean has them but dad's were green. Black hair comes from my grandfather on his side too, tends to skip generations…" She spoke on autopilot as she lifted the necklace from its bed, unclasping it and putting it around her neck.

"What do you think?"

He smiled.

"Beautiful."

She smiled back.

"Now you have to open yours, though I'm warning you it's not as impressive."

It was sat by the tree in the corner, the red paper all but glowing in the firelight. As he opened it he smiled.

"Sorry it's not that much, thought it would add a bit of colour to your day."

It was a red tie, quite an expensive red tie – she thought so anyway, she wasn't a frequent buyer of ties – but a red tie nonetheless.

"I know it's not much-"  
>"Thank you." He cut her off, smiling. She smiled back, pleased that her present had been well received and that her entire evening hadn't been a disaster. Mycroft just looked at her. Sherlock didn't deserve this woman, this beautiful, extraordinary woman if he was just going to put her to one side – you can't leave a bird in a cage and expect it to sing- so why did Sherlock think he could so blatantly neglect the woman who adored him and expect her to continue to do so?<br>He would not neglect her like this: ignoring her unless it was inconvenient to do so. He could shower her in affection, buy her gifts and remind her daily how extraordinary she was…help with the crippling debt of University fees that still sat heavily upon her shoulders despite the gaps she'd taken in her education to fund it…not keep her awake with the sounds of gunfire and endless violin solos, or drag her around the country to solve cases when she was supposed to be working…  
>She waved a hand in front of his face and woke him from his musing-induced trance, giggling.<br>"Mycroft? Earth to Mycroft, do you read me? Mycr..."  
>The kiss took Demi off guard – after such an extended period of no contact whatsoever with men, hand holding would take taken her off guard – and for a moment she was just frozen as his lips brushed against hers.<br>"Demi?" Mycroft gazed into her eyes as he pulled away, twirling a stray strand of hair between his fingers. "You okay?"  
>Demi just stared back blankly. What was going on? She was in love with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. Not Mycroft...<br>Another kiss took her off guard. Clearly Mycroft had taken her silence as a green light.  
>"Myc..." She protested before his lips cut her off, one hand sliding to her waist, the other continuing to tangle in her hair.<br>She pushed against his chest gently, but firmly, eyes widening as he continued to kiss her furiously.  
>"Mycroft stop!" She screamed as she finally managed to yank herself away, tears springing to her eyes as the strands of hair tangled round Mycroft's fingers were pulled from her scalp in the swift movement.<br>"Demi, i'm sor..." He began, reaching out to wipe the tears from her eyes, but she batted his hand away.  
>"Don't." She was shaking as she spoke.<br>"Demi..." He reached out again and she jerked away.  
>"No Mycroft! You had no right! You have no right! What about Sherlock?"<br>"I'm sorry Demi, I honestly didn't mean..."  
>She stood up, waving her hands around wildly as she tried to make this okay. "He loves me! I know when it comes to showing it he's about as useful as... well he's crap! But he does!"<br>"He doesn't treat you right Demi. He neglects you, you said it yourself! You'd think he was avoiding you half the time! That is not a sign that he's in love with you. He only wants you when it is convenient for him to do so and you're deluded if you think otherwise!"  
>He may as well have slapped her in the face. His words cut into her like knives.<br>"Oh and you're so caring, eh? For someone who was supposed to be cheering me up you're doing a bloody fantastic job, aren't you?" She spat, spinning on her heel and storming for the door.  
>Mycroft sighed. "Demi!"<br>He stopped short as his phone began to ring, scowling at the name on the phone.  
>"Demi wait!" Grabbing his phone he sped after her. "Sherlock." He greeted his sibling as his front door was slammed in his face.<br>"Well there's no need to be stroppy." Sherlock's sarcastic tone floated into the receiver. "I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight."

"We already know where she is. As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters."

"No, I mean you're going to find her dead."  
>It was going to be a long evening.<p>

X

Something was wrong with Mycroft, of that Sherlock was certain. He was swallowing more often than usual, a thin layer of perspiration on his forehead – all signs that he was attempting to conceal something. And failing. Because Mycroft, though graced with many talents (according to mummy anyway), had never been able to act. Molly had hastily donned a lab coat over her party dress once Sherlock had all but dragged her to the morgue – she'd only been talking to Lestrade so he wasn't interrupting anything important – and was watching his brother out of the corner of his eye. Usually, in this sort of situation, Mycroft suggested they call Demitria in to save time (and also because, rather annoyingly, he seemed to want to steal her away from Sherlock and whisk her off to a life of leisure – how dull) but today unusually he hadn't.

"The only one who fitted the description. Had her brought here, your home from home."

Molly nodded.

"The face is a bit sort of bashed-up so it might be a bit difficult."

She peeled the sheet back to reveal the face – which was, indeed, 'bashed-up'.

"That's her isn't it?" Asked Mycroft, Sherlock frowned.

"Show me the rest of her."

Molly peeled back the rest of the morgue sheet and Sherlock's silvery eyes flickered over the body revealed.

"That's her."

He walked off and Mycroft nodded in Molly's direction.

"Thank you, Miss Hooper."

"Who is she?" Cut in Molly, frowning, was this the 'dumb-class-A-bitch' that Demi had been scowling about for weeks? "How did Sherlock recognise her from…not her face?"

Mycroft just smiled tensely and followed his brother out. Sherlock was stood, gazing out of the window. He barely blinked as Mycroft held out the cigarette.

"Just one?"

"Why?" He took it and looked suspiciously at his brother, "You're being suspiciously bearable…and smoking indoors…isn't that one of those law thingys?"

Mycroft shrugged.

"We're in a morgue, there's only so much harm we can do."

He chuckled and lit it, putting it to his lips and inhaling.

"How did you know she was dead?"

"She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on…she chose to give it up."

"Where is it now?"

Sherlock's lips lifted slightly at the corners.

"Safe." Then he paused and looked at the cigarette, "This is _low tar_…"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. Then he spoke.

"Well you barely knew her."

"Hmm." Agreed Sherlock lowly, "Speaking of women I know, Demitria is off wandering the streets of London and I should probably try to find her before she freezes to death."

Mycroft's lips thinned and he cleared his throat.

"Yes, well…Merry Christmas Sherlock."

X

John picked up his phone and sighed.

"Hello?"

"He's on his way. Have you found anything?" Mycroft's voice reverberated down the line.

"No, did he take the cigarette?"

"Yes."

"Shit."

Facing Mrs Hudson he sighed.

"He's coming, ten minutes."

"There's nothing in the bedroom." She replied, "Oh look at that snow…I hope Demi's alright…"

"It looks like he's clean, we've tried all the usual places." John told Mycroft, "Are you sure tonight's a danger night?"

"No, but then I never am."

John sighed.

"Demi can usually tell…you don't know where she is do you?"

"I'm afraid not. You'll have to stay with him John."

"I've got plans…"

"No." Mycroft responded, hanging up. John sighed and sat beside Jeanette.

"I'm so sorry…"

He turned as he heard the sound of heeled shoes on the stairs and his eyes widened. Demi was covered in snow, the gentle falling having developed into a slightly more excessive flurry, her eyes were rimmed with red and she was shivering so violently that he could hear her teeth chattering.

"Demi! My God, what's happened to you?" He started upright.

"I'm f-f-fine…" She tried to argue as he hung up, almost biting off her own tongue in the process due to her wildly chattering teeth.

"No you're not. Mrs Hudson we might need some of that tea…Demi sit down, I'll get you a blanket, a towel to dry your hair…"

She shook her head.

"I'll clean myself up…where's Sherlock?" The colour was returning to her cheeks now, by the fire.

"Irene Adler is dead, Mycroft thinks it's a danger night."

Demi nodded.

"I'll go clean myself up, have you checked the medicine cabinet?"

John nodded his head and Demi walked off to the bathroom. Jeanette sighed.

"You know my friends are wrong about you."

"Hmm?"

"You're a great boyfriend."

John frowned in surprise.

"Okay, that's good. I mean, I always thought I was great…"

She nodded.

"Sherlock Holmes and Demitria Blake are very lucky to have you." She started picking up her things hurriedly.

"Oh Jeanette, please…"

"No, I mean it. It's heart warming. You'll do anything for them." She stood up, "I mean Sherlock can't even tell your girlfriends apart!"

X

Demi sighed as she heard Jeanette shouting at John, scrubbing the makeup off of her face as she heard the door slam downstairs and drying her hair with a towel. It puffed outwards slightly with static electricity as she brushed her teeth and peeled the heels off of her feet before leaving the bathroom.

"Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time." Sherlock's voice broke her out of her trance as the two of them almost walked into each other. Sherlock looked her over and frowned. Demitria's face was pink from the cold and the removal of her makeup, her black hair was no longer pinned up elegantly but hung around her face and over her shoulders dejectedly. She carried her shoes in her left hand and her sparkly dress was shining with the remnants of the snow that hadn't dried yet. More importantly she was wearing a necklace, clearly worth more than the rest of her possessions, possibly combined, which glittered and reflected the light escaping from the living room. As he leaned forwards to gaze more closely at the offending object, he caught a familiar scent in the air around her.

"Why do you smell like my brother?"

He'd been expecting her to brush it off, perhaps even to get angry at him, but her cheeks flushed crimson and her blue eyes filled with tears.

"I…um…well…" She tried to speak but her throat wouldn't let the words out, and her tear ducts had decided to work overtime, "I just went to see him and…and…" She swallowed as Sherlock leaned closer to fully take in how much of a snivelling wreck she was. "He just…kissed me. I'm sorry Sherlock, I didn't want…I mean he wouldn't stop…I mean I knew he liked me ages ago but I didn't think he still did…" She looked lost, like the rug had suddenly been swept from under her feet, "He said you didn't want me, or at least not when it's inconvenient…and you don't do you? You live in this strange little world where I'm here only to distract you when you're bored and to be used or swept aside when you have a case."

Sherlock frowned, Demitria had always been a mystery to him as far as the workings of her mind were concerned, but he hadn't been expecting this.

In hindsight he probably should listen to John more.

"Why would you think that?"

Her eyebrows shot up her forehead in disbelief.

"Because you ignore me! Even more than you did before the whole pool incident! Because I don't know what to call this…this _thing, _whatever it is we're calling our relationship now, if that's even what it is! Because I'd like, just once in the time span of my sorry existence, to have one person who doesn't routinely remind me of my shortcomings in life!" Her fists were clenched and she was shaking slightly, "I care a lot about you Sherlock and not only do you not seem to reciprocate any of that whatsoever, but you don't even seem to notice I'm here! I'm just Demitria, that stupid girl with morgue access who will do whatever you want her to do despite never getting even a thank you in return!"

Her shoulders slumped as she finished, her frame seeming smaller now she'd let out months worth of pent up frustration straight into Sherlock's bemused looking face. He was still frowning and she rolled her eyes, turning to walk away.

"I do care."

She whirled back around.

"What?"

"I do. Care about you that is. And you're not stupid, not even close."

He seemed to be struggling with words, frowning even deeper as he tried to articulate the thoughts whizzing around in his brain. He never had trouble with words, but these ones…I care about you, I need you, I need you to need me…they were so difficult to say.

"Well if you care so much why don't you try acting like it?" She demanded, eyes narrowed, hair messy around her pale face and lips tightening as they so often did when she was angry. His retort died in his throat and he fully comprehended for the first time exactly how much of her pale white skin was left uncovered by the dress she wore and how strongly it contrasted with the ebony of her hair. Demitria Blake, a walking contradiction. And for once in his life, Sherlock Holmes didn't listen to the part of his brain that had been telling him since his teens that women were an unnecessary distraction, in fact that part of his brain was being firmly ignored by the second, larger part of his brain – which was at that moment fixated on the woman before him. And so, that small part of his brain firmly locked away, he took that beautiful, pale face in his hands, and he kissed her.

They had only really kissed once before, in a moment of heated 'we almost died' style passion at a public swimming pool in central London after he'd just ripped a Semtex vest off of her shaking form – not exactly what would be labelled a romantic encounter. And in many ways neither was this, they were in a corridor, the faint hissing of Sherlock's kitchen laboratory coming from the next room, with melting snow in their hair. His lips pressed furiously to hers in an attempt to put across to her what he had struggled to put into words.

Needless to say, John had a sleepless night that night.

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	10. Chapter 10

Demi awoke slowly the next morning, pulling the covers closer to her bare skin in an attempt to stave off the cold air threatening to freeze her to death. She didn't fancy being such an undignified corpse.

Sherlock wasn't there, she noticed, but he was always up and about by six unless he was 'binging' on sleep – when he didn't get up until at least midday, if he even got up at all. She could hear him playing a jumpy, excited melody on the violin in the front room of the flat and she smiled slightly, stretching out and sitting upright, casting her eyes around the room – which she now recognised as Sherlock's – in search of clothing. She could still smell him around her, the smell of mulled wine mixed with the faint scent of cigarette smoke and chemicals. Her eyes settled on one of Sherlock's shirts and her underwear from the day before. They would do to cover her while she ran upstairs to get new ones. She buttoned up the shirt, which was slightly tight over her chest but covered her legs enough for her to keep some semblance of modesty about her as she tiptoed out of his room.

"That's a lovely tune Sherlock, I haven't heard that one before." She heard her aunt's voice before she saw her, but then she did. "Oh good morning Demi dear, would you like some breakfast?"

All eyes had turned to her, clad in one of Sherlock's shirts and blushing furiously. John politely averted his eyes and coughed slightly, Sherlock did not, his silvery blue eyes taking in the sight before him with what she swore was smugness. She shifted from foot to foot and nodded.

"Yes please aunty Jean…I'll just…go and get dressed."

She shot off so quickly that she was a blur of pale white and ebony.

X

Demitria was now fully dressed in a pair of jeans, a shirt and the reindeer jumper Mrs Turner from next door had made her for Christmas, curled up on the sofa, watching Sherlock play. Her black hair still hung loose and her face was bare of makeup as she looked up at him. The notes came easily, almost effortlessly, with the muse the song centred around so close by. Playing helped him process new information, much of which he'd certainly come across as of late. His thoughts were divided between the recently deceased Irene Adler - her mysterious camera phone password and the information it could possibly hold - and the woman before him, his brain cataloguing her likes and dislikes, the feel of her lips against his, her blue eyes with the pupils blown wide, skin to skin contact…. Of course John chose to interrupt his train of thought as he cleared his throat.

"So…good night then? I see you're composing again Sherlock."

"Excellent, thank you." Sherlock replied coolly, lips raising slightly at the corners as Demitria's cheeks went a faint pink and she bit her lip to compress a smile. "And yes, it helps me think."

"What are you thinking about?"

Sherlock suddenly handed the violin to Demi, who paused in her perusal of the morning paper to receive it and place it back into its case.

"The counter on your blog is still stuck at 1,895."

"Yeah it's faulty, I can't seem to fix it."

"Faulty or you've been hacked and it's a message."

He whipped a camera phone – which they shortly recognised as Irene's – out of his dressing gown pocket and typed the four digits in. An unhealthy sounding noise emanated from the phone and he scowled.

"Just faulty…Demitria."

She took the hint and handed him back the violin, kissing his cheek as she went to help her aunt fill the dishwasher. Blinking at the unexpected moment of intimacy, Sherlock paused before playing a new line and noting it down. Demi smiled at her aunt.

"Here, let me get it, I don't want you making that hip of yours any worse."

Mrs Hudson batted at her niece playfully.

"I'm not a cripple love. So you and Sherlock got over your little spat then? You seem to be getting along well." She winked and Demi gasped, swatting at her aunts shoulder.

"Aunty Jean!"

Her aunt giggled again.

"What? I used to have fun too you know! But do keep it down love, the walls are dreadfully thin."

X

New Years eve rolled around and Sherlock was still working on that same piece of music, often pausing to stare at Irene Adler's camera phone before returning to his violin. Demi, when she wasn't at work gossiping with Molly, would sit on the sofa with a book, listening to him play and answering his few questions, making sure he actually ate and slept and didn't just stare at a camera phone for days. On New Years eve John left the flat with a shiver, and as he turned to walk down the street, a woman in black called his name.

"John?"

"Yeah?" He turned, "Hello."

She walked towards him.

"So, any plans for tonight?"

He thought briefly of his current plans to spend the evening watching crap TV and drinking tequila shots with Demi and Sherlock – who probably wouldn't drink but was apparently one of the few people who could stop Demi drinking _too much_.

"Um, uh, nothing fixed." He paused, "Nothing I couldn't heartlessly abandon…you have any ideas?"

"One." She smiled as a black car drove up beside him. He rolled his eyes.

"You know Mycroft could just phone me, if he didn't have this bloody stupid power complex."

He got into the car anyway and as he looked out of the window, the hustle and bustle of London emptied out somewhat as they approached what appeared to be a factory. An empty one at that. The woman walked him up some stairs and along a corridor.

"Couldn't we just go to a café? Sherlock doesn't follow me everywhere."

"Through there." She gestured, pointing ahead of her. He walked in the appointed direction into another corridor, choosing his words carefully before he said them.

"She was a wreck when she got back from yours!" He called, "Covered in snow, half frozen….I should warn you Sherlock wants to kill you." He sighed, "Then again he always does." His voice trailed off as he turned and came face to face with Irene Adler.

"Hello, Doctor Watson."

He stared for a moment.

"You're not Mycroft Holmes…nor are you dead."

"No I am not, on both counts." She wore black, as if mourning her own elaborately faked death, and her makeup was perfected despite her current fugitive status.

"You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you."

"DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep."

"And I bet you know the record keeper?"

She shrugged.

"I know what he likes. And I needed to disappear."

John rolled his eyes.

"Then how come I can see you? I don't even want to."

She half laughed.

"Look, I made a mistake," She raised her hands defensively, "I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping and now I need it back, so I need your help."

John shook his head.

"No."

"It's for his own safety."

"So is this."

John laughed.

"Tell him you're alive, although I'd be careful, Demi might actually kill you. In fact you know what, I'll tell him myself and I still won't help you."

He turned to walk away.

"What do I say?" She called.

"What do you normally say?" He demanded, whirling around, "You've texted him a lot!"

"Just the usual stuff." She defended.

"There is no usual, not in this case."

She brought another phone out of her pocket and tapped the screen.

"Good morning. I like your funny hat. You look sexy on Crimewatch, so does Demitria, let's have dinner, she doesn't have to know. I'm not hungry, let's have dinner."

John looked a cross between confused and furious.

"You…flirted…with Sherlock Holmes?"

"At him. He never replies."

John half laughed, his breath fogging.

"No, Sherlock always replies. To everything. He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word."

Irene smirked.

"Does that make me special?"

"I don't know, maybe. Or maybe he just already has a girlfriend."

Irene sighed.

"Ah yes, the beautiful Demitria. I get the impression she doesn't like me."

"You don't say"? Interrupted John. She smiled.

"It's a shame really, brains and beauty, winning combination in my books. I like my lovers dark and mysterious looking…." She tapped her phone a few times, "There. 'I'm not dead, let's have dinner."

Their eyes widened simultaneously as they heard a familiar breathy moan nearby.

Sherlock's phone.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Demi had rolled her eyes as she watched John getting into the black car. The thought of Mycroft still made her feel slightly ashamed – she'd led him on, clearly – her stomach contorting into uncomfortable knots and blood pooling beneath the white skin of her cheek. If Sherlock ever noticed her reacting to his brother's name or the sight of an expensive black car, he didn't comment. He hadn't blamed her for what had happened, hadn't been angry with her, but she still felt the need to make up for it, stolen kisses, extra contact, just little things to remind him that she'd made her decision. That she wasn't going to run off with his brother and elope to the British countryside.

As Demi emptied the washing machine, eyeing a fizzing test tube on the table with suspicion, Sherlock put his violin down suddenly and darted for the door, tossing her his dressing gown.

"Where are you off to?" She inquired, peeling the blue material from her face and looking at him.

"Just checking on something. Hang that up, won't you?"

She rolled her eyes and hung it on the back of his bedroom door. She could hear aunty Jean cleaning downstairs, as she tended to do at the weekend, and smiled as she settled herself down to check her emails and read another chapter of her book before it mysteriously disappeared (as her books tended to do – Sherlock reverently denied having any involvement but she'd found a charred scrap of the Da Vinci Code front cover on the kitchen table beneath a bottle of medical grade alcohol a few months ago).

Suddenly she heard a banging from the floor below, as if a door had slammed open. She knew better -after living with Sherlock for a year- than to call out like some helpless damsel in a horror film and draw attention to herself, so she got up with the intention of discreetly creeping to see what was happening.

And then her aunt screamed.

"Aunty Jean?" Panic overrode sensibility as she heard male voices shouting, American male voices.

"Upstairs!" Demanded the voice that seemed to be in charge. Demi looked around frantically for John's army browning, but to no avail. Picking up a golf club that they'd acquired after solving the murder of a man on the green of a prestigious golfing club in the lake district, she held it slightly aloft over her shoulder as she heard them dragging her aunt up the stairs. She stood slightly to the left of the door, back pressed against the wall so they would enter on her right without seeing her. Listening to the footsteps, she concluded that the two men dragging her aunt were walking behind another man. Aunty Jean was sobbing, crying out for Demi to get out of there. A thud and a whimper informed her that they'd punched her and Demi's chest tightened, her blood pulsing in her ears.

She saw red as the leading man entered, swinging the golf club full force into his face. With a sickening crunching, squishing noise, his nose shattered, accompanied by his left cheekbone – which, though not as broken, was definitely fractured. He reared back and cried out, arms flailing around him and knocking the golf club from her grip. One hand cradling his broken nose, he grabbed her hair with the other, pulling so hard tears stung her eyes as a few hairs were ripped from her scalp. Both her and her aunt were herded into the middle of the room, where Demi hugged the smaller woman to her protectively, as the three American assailants pulled guns from their waistbands, aiming them at the two women as the man with the broken nose – clearly the ringleader of the trio, whom she recognised from the encounter at Adler's house – clicked his nose back into place as well as he could and wiped the blood from his lips with his sleeve.

"Right then," His voice was nasally due to the break, "Where's the camera phone?"

"What phone?" Asked Aunty Jean quietly, "Demi what's he on about?"

Demi stayed silent and the man's eyes narrowed as he turned to his companions.

"I think we need a little talk with Demitria here, if you two would be so kind, please escort Mrs Hudson to the back room over there while we interrogate?"

Mrs Hudson grasped at Demi's shirt in a mixture of mock and genuine fear, whispering in her ear.

"Where is it?"

"Dressing gown." Demi's voice was barely a murmur and a moment later they'd torn her aunt away from her, throwing her into Sherlock's bedroom, one man standing by the door and the other returning to the main room, all three still pointing their guns at Demi.

"Well Demitria, it's lovely to see you again. Now, where is it?"

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	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock approached 221B in a sort of daze, crashing back down to earth as he saw the front door. Lock broken, kicked in, size 9 shoe…he pushed it open, then the inner door, the glass cool against his palm. There were cleaning products in the hallway – Mrs Hudson always cleaned on weekends – but no Mrs Hudson, all the products still in the box, even the rubber gloves still folded over the side, unused.

His silvery blue eyes darted around the room. Shoe scuffs on the wall, a man, possibly two, had dragged someone up the stairs…Mrs Hudson judging by the scratch marks that accompanied the scuffs and chips of nail polish still in the wood of the wall where she'd clawed at the surface, trying to gain purchase. He picked up a can, sliding it up his sleeve, before making his way up the stairs. The door had been closed, and as he opened it he saw Demitria and Mrs Hudson, sat on chairs in the centre of the room, each with a man stood behind them, pressing a gun to the back of their head. Demitria's breathing was slightly laboured, her face slightly disfigured by bruises, and her red lips slightly swollen at the corner as if she'd received a hit across her face from the left. Mrs Hudson wasn't looking much better, bruises also flowering on her cheeks, her clothes askew. Inside him, something began to crumble and break. The more he looked at Demitria's bruised face, at Mrs Hudson's shaking, sobbing form, the more he wanted to throw the men with guns out of the window. Mrs Hudson sobbed as he entered, looking up.

"Oh Sherlock, Sherlock…."

Demitria remained perfectly silent, her face dry of tears and her hands almost perfectly steady in her lap. The only sign that she'd seen him at all was her blue eyes meeting his for a moment before pointedly drifting to the man behind her aunt. He was the leader then.

"Don't snivel Mrs Hudson, it'll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet."

Demitria's eyes narrowed and she reached slowly to rest her hand on her aunt's – the whole process being watched carefully by the men in the room.

"Oh please, sorry Sherlock…."

The man holding a gun to Mrs Hudson's head, the one Demi had pointed out as the biggest threat, was the same one Sherlock had knocked out with a gun a few weeks prior, his nose was swollen and crooked, a thick red line running across his face and across his dented cheek bone. Sherlock realised with something akin to pride that Demitria had walloped the man across the face with the golf club that had been sitting in the corner for weeks and now lay by the sofa.

"I believe you have something we want, Mr Holmes."

"Then why don't you ask for it?"

He reached forwards, grasping Mrs Hudson's shaking hand softly before pushing Demitria's sleeve up her arm slightly, revealing further bruising on her wrists. His hand lingered upon her skin for a moment, gently squeezing the unbruised flesh of her hand before he withdrew it.

"Well we've been asking these two lovely ladies, but this one," he gestured to Mrs Hudson, "Doesn't seem to know anything and your pretty little girlfriend here hasn't said a word."

"I think you'll find I told you to go screw yourselves." Corrected Demitria. The man hit her head with the butt of his gun and she lurched forwards slightly, her long black hair brushing Sherlock's hand before she straightened and glared at the American.

"Anyway…you know what I'm looking for, don't you Mr Holmes?"

He looked up, eyes cataloguing the man's weaknesses, the parts of his body that would hurt the most when impacted while part of his mind formulated varying plans to wipe the smug grin off of his face.

"I believe I do."

He stepped back.

"First get rid of your boys."

"Why?"

"I dislike being outnumbered, it makes for too much stupid in the room."

Demi's lips pulled upwards in a grim smile, her wince visible as the torn skin ached slightly.

"You two go to the car." Commanded the ringleader. Demi rolled her eyes and Sherlock spoke again.

"Then get into the car and drive away. Don't try to trick me, you know who I am, it doesn't work."

They left and Sherlock nodded.

"Next you can stop pointing a gun at me."

"So you can point a gun at me?" Questioned the American, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm unarmed."

"Mind if I check?"

"Oh I insist."

Demi raised her eyebrows as the man walked over, gun still aloft, and began to check Sherlock's coat, walking around him to check he didn't have a gun tucked into the back of his trousers. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned, spraying the man in the eyes with a can of polish – which he'd apparently conjured from his sleeve – before head butting him. The man fell motionless to the ground and Sherlock looked very pleased with himself.

"Moron."

He turned and knelt in front of the two women, placing his hands on those of Mrs Hudson.

"You're alright now, you're alright."

She nodded, her breathing still ragged. He turned to Demitria, eyes scanning her for bodily damage, hands gently stroking the bruises on her face. His thumb stroked the bruise on the corner of her lips and they parted slightly, her warm breath condensing slightly on his hand. Slowly, almost shyly, he briefly pressed his lips to the bruise before straightening up and turning to the fallen man with venom in his eyes.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

When John got home the door lock was broken and a piece of paper with 'Crime in progress, please disturb' written on it was attached to the door knocker. Frowning, he entered the flat and walked as quickly as he could up the stairs.

"What's going on?"

Mrs Hudson was sat on the sofa, Demi beside her with her arms around her aunt in a supportive embrace. Sherlock was sitting by the doorway, pointing a gun at a man tied to a chair in the centre of the room, a thick line of bruises across his face and silver tape across his mouth.

"Jesus, what the hell is happening?"

"Mrs Hudson and Demitria have been attacked by an American, I am restoring balance to the universe."

He looked to the two women again.

"Oh my God…are you alright?" He took in their bruised faces, "Jesus, what have they done to you?"

Mrs Hudson was still crying.

"Oh, I'm just being so silly!" She was shaking and Demi cradled her close, wincing as her aunt made contact with the bruises on her abdomen.

"Ssh, ssh no you're not. It's alright, Sherlock will sort things out."

Sherlock nodded.

"Downstairs, take her downstairs and look after her. Demitria you go too."

"I want to stay here!" She argued hotly.

"You're injured. Let John look at your injuries." She looked as if she was about to argue again so he covered her mouth with a long white hand, "Please."

She sighed and nodded, like a teenager being forced to tidy their bedroom, before following John and her aunt down the stairs. As she went down the stairs she heard his voice again.

"Lestrade, we've had a break in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance. Oh no, no, no, no, no, we're fine. No it's the, uh, it's the burglar, he's got himself rather badly injured."

She heard no more as she was ushered into her aunt's flat. John sat them both down and fetched two glasses of water. He was checking Demi's bruised ribs (an experience that was definitely not lacking in awkwardness since she'd had to remove her shirt in order for him to do so) when he spoke.

"She's alive."

Demi frowned.

"Who?"

"Irene Adler."

She was about to retort when a dark shape flew past the window and landed with a _CRASH_ . They all looked sideways suddenly and Mrs Hudson frowned.

"Ooh…that was right on my bins."

X

Sherlock stood by Lestrade as the ambulance pulled away.

"So," Spoke the man beside him, "Exactly how many times did he fall out of the window?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Oh it's all a bit of a blur Detective Inspector…I lost count."

Demitria poked her head out of Baker Street, clutching one of John's ridiculous jumpers closer to her shivering frame – John had suggested wearing something that wasn't too tight against her bruises – and smiled.

"Aunty Jean just put the kettle on, you boys want some tea?"

"Coffee please." Responded Sherlock, Demi raised an eyebrow.

"Little late for coffee isn't it? What about you?" She turned to Lestrade. He shook his head.

"Nah, I should get back to the station, you look after yourself Demi, we need you around to keep him in check." He jutted his head towards Sherlock who scowled. Demi smirked.

"I'll try. Thanks again."

He shrugged.

"No problem, just doing my job."

He walked off after a final wave and Demi walked over to Sherlock, her ridiculous furry slippers slipping slightly on the icy ground. She touched his arm gently and smiled.

"Come inside, you've had quite enough for one day don't you think?"

"John told you then?"

"About Adler? Yeah. I don't like the woman but I suppose it's not a bad thing she's alive. Doesn't mean it's a good thing of course…"

He raised an eyebrow.

"You're a very confusing woman."

She grinned.

"I'll take that as a compliment. Come on or Aunty Jean will come and physically drag us." she tugged at his arm and he followed her inside. John was talking to Mrs Hudson as they entered.

"You can sleep up in our flat tonight, you shouldn't be on your own."

"No…" she protested weakly. Sherlock sighed.

"She's fine."

"No she's not, look at her. She's got to take some time away from Baker street…is there anyone you could stay with?"

Demi snorted.

"Aside from my mum? Who she hates?"

Mrs Hudson tutted.

"Hate is such a strong word Demi dear. Last time we spoke I wanted to hit her with that golf club but I wouldn't say I hate her…"

Sherlock opened the fridge and pulled out a mince pie, biting into it.

"Don't be absurd." He spoke. Mrs Hudson muttered about talking with his mouth full and he pointedly swallowed it.

"I'm not being absurd! She's in shock! And all over some bloody stupid camera phone…where is it anyway?"

Demi smirked as Sherlock spoke.

"Safest place I know."

Mrs Hudson smiled and reached into her shirt, withdrawing the phone.

"You left it in the pocket of your second best dressing gown you clot…I wouldn't have found it if Demi didn't hang it up for you. I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry."

Sherlock pocketed it.

"Thank you. Shame on you John Watson."

"Shame on me?" John demanded, bristling.

"Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street? England would_ fall_." He put his hand on her shoulder and drew her close.

"Not to mention the amount of washing up we'd do." Muttered Demi, smiling as her aunt giggled.

X

Once she'd made sure her aunt was okay, tucked up in bed watching Great Expectations again, Demi returned to the upstairs flat.

"Whatever is on that phone, it's more than just photographs." John spoke as Demi slipped in and walked over.

"Yes, it is."

He plucked the strings of his violin.

"So she's alive then…how are we feeling about that?"

Demi shrugged, Sherlock just picked up his bow and began to play auld lang syne. Demi watched, curled up on the sofa, and clapped when he finished, standing and walking over. Pulling him down gently by his lapels she kissed him soundly and smiled.

"Happy New Year."

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	12. Chapter 12

Demi looked into a microscope at the lab as Sherlock – for some inexplicable reason – x-rayed Irene Adler's camera phone (he'd shot out of bed that morning, stealing the covers in the process, ranting about cracking a code. She loved him, she really did, but she could do without being woken up like that on New Years day). Molly looked at the screen in confusion.

"Is that a phone?"

Demi nodded as Sherlock replied.

"It's a camera phone."

"And you're x-raying it?"

"Yes I am."

She looked over at Demi who nodded in an understanding manner.

"Who's phone is it?"

Demi sighed.

"It's a long story. You remember the woman we spoke about right? The one who likes playing games with people's heads…and other parts of their anatomy come to think of it…"

Sherlock leapt up and pulled the phone from the machine.

"Yes she does like to play games…and she sent this to our address…" He typed in four digits and the phone made an error noise. Demi sighed.

"Well there goes one attempt…how many left?"

"Two." Responded Sherlock, scowling.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Hours later they arrived back at Baker Street. And Sherlock was still sulking.

"Cheer up, we'll figure it out eventually."

"Time is of the essence Demitria." He retorted, watching as she rolled her eyes.

"Okay then stop whining and start thinking."

Demitria's bruises had been cleverly disguised by some skin coloured mousse in a glass pot. Sherlock had walked in on her smearing the stuff on her face. Apparently women used it to make themselves more beautiful. However, while it hid the bruises sufficiently enough for her not to attract a crowd of people asking if she was alright, it did not make her more beautiful – if such a thing were possible – the tone was a shade too dark for her pale complexion and a few particles of the powder that went on over it were stuck to her right eyebrow. He brushed it away and she barely flinched – used to him doing odd things like invading personal space to stroke an eyebrow – before they entered the flat. Sherlock stopped, sniffing the air, and Demi walked into him.

"Ow…Sherlock what are you doing?"

He sniffed again as she walked over to the window and opened it.

"The lock is broken." She looked over to him, "Oh God we haven't had another sodding break in have we?"

She followed Sherlock towards his bedroom as John walked up the stairs with bags of shopping.

"Oh hi you two, any luck at the lab?"

They both made vague noises signalling that there hadn't been before opening Sherlock's bedroom door and halting in their tracks.

"Oh great." Demi sighed. "What's _she _doing here?"

Irene Adler lay asleep on Sherlock's bed.

X

Irene sat opposite them. John was perched on his chair and both Demi and Sherlock sat on the sofa.

"So who's after you?" Asked Sherlock.

"People who want to kill me."

"And you thought here of all places was a good place to hide?" Asked Demi, raising her eyebrows, "Because we all got along so well the last time we met. Remember? You flashed us all your goods, a bloke got shot and you drugged Sherlock with a hair pin."

Sherlock looked vaguely disgruntled as she brought up his moment of drug-induced stupidity.

"So who wants to kill you?" Demi continued.

"Killers."

John looked over as Demi opened her mouth to retort.

"It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific."

"So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them?" Sherlock broke in.

"It worked for a while."

"Except that you let John know that you're alive and therefore myself and Demitria."

She shrugged.

"I knew you'd keep my secret."

"Seems like you couldn't." Responded Demi, inspecting a stray thread on her jeans. Irene sighed.

"Where's my camera phone?" She demanded.

"Not here, we're not stupid." John replied, turning to face her more.

"Then what have you done with it? If they've guessed you've got it they'll be watching you…already are judging by the state of Demitria's face."

Demi ducked her head self consciously and her black hair curtained it slightly.

"Then they'll know that took a safety deposit box at the Strand a few months ago." Sherlock averted attention from Demitria, his fingers twitching towards her slightly as he resisted the urge to push her hair back from her face.

"I need it."

"Well…we can't just go and get it can we?" Spoke John. "Molly Hooper… she could collect it, take it to Bart's. We could get one of your homeless network to bring it here and leave it in the café then get one of the boys to bring it up the back."

"Very good plan John, full of intelligent precautions." Sherlock spoke as Demi smiled, brushing her hair aside to further view the happenings in the room.

"Great so why don't I call- oh for God's sake." John sighed as Sherlock withdrew the phone from his pocket.

"So, what do you keep on here? Aside from pictures I mean."

Irene shrugged.

"Information, anything I might find useful."

"For blackmail?" John asked.

"For protection. I make my way in the world, I misbehave, I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be."

"So how do you acquire this information?" Asked Sherlock.

"I told you, I misbehave."

Demi emitted a low whistle.

"You gain information that warrants being followed by CIA agents via pillow talk? Nice. But you've got something on there that's more dangerous than protection…do you know what it is?"

"Yes….but I don't understand it."

Sherlock nodded.

"I assumed. Show me." Irene held out her hand and Sherlock spoke again. "Pass code?"

She continued to hold out her hand and he handed the phone over reluctantly. She typed in a code and the phone made the same error noise that had irritated Sherlock for so long.

"It's not working…"

"No, because it's a duplicate that I had made into which you've just entered the numbers 1058. I assumed you'd choose something more specific than that but thanks anyway…Demitria?"

Demi sighed and withdrew a phone from her pocket, handing it over. Sherlock entered the digits into the keyboard before pressing enter.

The same irritating error alert echoed in the otherwise empty flat.

"I told you that camera phone was my life. I know when it's in my hand."

Sherlock frowned.

"You're rather good."

"You're not so bad."Irene responded pulling an expression so flirtatious and 'come hither' it should come with a rating. Demi's eyes narrowed into slits. "There was a man. An MOD official and I knew what he liked. One of the things he liked was showing off." She was typing into her phone, "He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know it but I photographed it. He was a bit tied up at the time."

Sherlock took the phone and walked to the window.

"It's a bit small on that screen, can you read it?"

"Yes."

"Code obviously. I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it though he was mostly upside down as I recall…couldn't figure it out."

Demi plonked herself down in Sherlock's arm chair and shared a 'we both know what she's trying to do here' glance with John as Sherlock frowned at the phone screen.

"What can you do Mr Holmes? Go on, impress a girl."

She kissed his cheek and Demi's knuckles cracked as she grabbed at the leather of the sofa in an attempt to stop herself throwing Irene Adler back out of the window she'd entered through. Sherlock did, at least, seem unaffected by the kiss and instead spoke rapidly.

"There's a margin of error but I'm pretty sure there's a 747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at 6:30 in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it's going to save the world, I'm not sure how that could be true, but give me a moment I've only been on the case for eight seconds."

Demi walked over and peered over his shoulder.

"Seat allocations?"

"Correct Demitria, it's good to know you're beginning to pay attention to things. They're seat allocations on a passenger jet. There's no letter I because it can be mistaken for a one, no letters past K-"

"Width of the plane is the limit." Demi nodded, her eyes scanning the screen.

"Yes, the numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place – families and couples sitting together – only a jumbo is wide enough to need a letter K or rows past 55 which is why there's always an upstairs. There's a row 13 which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there's the style of the flight number, 007, that eliminates a few more. And assuming the British point of origin, which would be logical, considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent," He stood and faced Irene as he talked, Demi mimicking his movements subconsciously as she concentrated on his words, "the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the 6:30 tomorrow evening from Heathrow airport." He finished. "Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing, John has expressed that in every possible variant available to the English language."

Demi seemed to temporarily forget how much she hated Irene Adler, poking her head out from behind Sherlock and nodding, receiving a swat from John. Then her hatred returned as Adler spoke.

"I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice."

Demi's mouth popped open.

"Excuse me?" She demanded, her anger reaching boiling point, "Who exactly do you think you are?"

Irene looked at her, smiling.

"Oh you can join in by all means. The more the merrier and you really are very attractive when you're angry."

Sherlock broke the silence as Demitria opened her mouth again – it was highly likely that her doing so meant she was about to unleash a stream of profanities that would give her aunt downstairs a heart attack.

"John can you check those flight schedules and see if I'm right?"

John – who had been staring between the two women as if he expected them to try and claw each other's eyes out – nodded gormlessly.

"Um…I'm on it, yeah." He tapped away on his keyboard, "Uh, yeah, you're right. Flight double-oh-seven."

Suddenly, Sherlock and Demi's eyes lit up like mini Christmas trees.

"What did you say?"

"You're right."

"No, no after that, what did you say after that?"

John frowned.

"Double-oh-seven. Flight double-oh-seven."

Sherlock took off, walking around the room muttering the three digits to himself. Nobody noticed Irene typing on her phone behind her back. Demi stepped forwards and pulled a face.

"Sherlock?"

"What?" He turned and scowled.

"Double-oh-seven. Number for James Bond…"

Sherlock sighed.

"Very nice Demitria but I'm not in the mood for trivia."

"Bond. Sherlock." She bit out, "Remember? When Mycroft came to visit. **Bond.**"

Sherlock's eyes widened as he remembered his brother's words…Bond air is go….

X

On the other side of London, Mycroft Holmes received a text.

_Jumbo Jet. Dear me Mr Holmes, dear me._

He leaned onto one hand, sitting there for what seemed like hours before covering his face with both hands.

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	13. Chapter 13

Demitria had gone to the shops after looking through their cupboards and finding little more than jam, stale bread and a jar of out of date mustard. John was off God knows where – probably searching for his next generic looking, boring girlfriend – and Sherlock was sat by the fireside, tuning his violin. He was watching the clock, Demitria should have been home five minutes ago given her usual schedule and walking pace – he just hoped his brother hadn't kidnapped her again. His mind was replaying Mycroft's words in his head, trying to fit them to the jumbo jet identified earlier that day.

_Check with the Coventry lot…_

"Coventry." He muttered out loud.

"I've never been." Responded Adler. "Is it nice?" When he didn't respond she continued. "What's Coventry got to do with anything?"

He took a deep breath.

"It's a story. Probably not true. In the second world war the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they'd broken the German code but they didn't want the Germans to know they'd broken the code so they let it happen anyway."

Irene was watching him with a sort of fascination.

"Have you ever had anyone?"

The whirring in his mind slowed down as her words sunk in. His eyes narrowed.

"I'm sorry?"

"And when I say had I'm being indelicate." She smiled, "The lovely Demitria perhaps? She is quite beautiful and I have a feeling she'd be even more so with her clothes off."

She leaned forwards in interest and he stiffened.

"I'd rather you didn't talk about her like that."

"Sweet. But you haven't answered my question."

The door downstairs opened and they heard Demi's voice as she walked up the stairs, the rustling of shopping bags as she rounded the corner.

"I got you some patches." She smiled as she entered, dumping the bags on the kitchen counter and fishing inside for the box before lobbing it in Sherlock's direction. He only just managed to catch it, his mind still reeling, and she frowned.

"Are you alright?" She looked at Irene accusingly, "What have you done to him?"

Irene smiled blissfully.

"I asked him a question, made an observation…I think I might have shocked him a little."

Demi just narrowed her eyes and put the milk away as her aunt called up the stairs.

"Sherlock! Demi!"

She entered and smiled tensely at Irene before speaking.

"Sherlock this man was at the door. Is the bell still not working?"

"Nope, he shot it." Spoke Demi as she walked in from the kitchen. A well groomed man in a suit was stood in the doorway. Sherlock didn't look amused.

"Have you come to take me away again?"

"Yes Mr Holmes. And Miss Blake."

Mrs Hudson looked alarmed.

"Take her where? What's she done?"

Sherlock looked away.

"We decline."

The man walked over and withdrew an envelope from his suit.

"I don't think you do."

Sherlock opened the envelope after snatching it out of the man's hands. Inside was a plane ticket.

"Demitria it seems we have somewhere to be."

X

They were herded into the familiar black car they'd been in so many times, Sherlock helping her in before himself. Her eyes narrowed at the gesture.

"What have you done?"

"Pardon?"

"You're only this nice when you want me on your side in an argument. Or you've eaten my Ben and Jerrys."

The car had started moving by this point, almost silent as it made its way through the London traffic.

"So," she prompted, "What's going on?"

"There's going to be a bomb on a passenger jet, the British and American governments know about it but rather than stop it they're going to let it happen. The plane will blow up. It's Coventry all over again."

Demi blinked slowly.

"Still failing to see what this has to do with us."

"Bond air Demitria. Flight double-oh-seven."

She frowned.

"They've given you a ticket to a plane that's going to blow up? Is this for throwing that guy out of the window because the tosser deserved it."

His lips twitched upwards as they drove into an airport, coming to a stop beside a large plane. Sherlock got out of the car, holding out a hand and helping Demitria out beside him. Stood by the plane was the American man Demi had hit with a golf club, his face now covered in bruises that ranged from black to purple to pale sickly yellow.

"Well, you look very…colourful." Spoke Sherlock as they approached. "How ya feelin'?" Demi blinked at his accent. Sherlock, it seemed, could flawlessly mimic an American accent.

"Like putting a bullet in your brain, sir."

Demi muttered something that sounded oddly like 'likewise' as Sherlock scoffed and began to walk up the steps to the plane.

"They'd pin a medal on me if I did…sir." Added the man, smirking as well as he could with his bruised face.

Sherlock continued into the plane, closely followed by Demitria. It was dark inside, and eerily silent. The passengers were still and limp in their seats. Sherlock flicked on a reading light as Demi checked the pulse of a man beside her.

"Sherlock he's dead…" She whispered as he looked around.

"The Coventry conundrum." Mycroft's voice made Demi jump backwards, almost landing in the lap of the dead man. "What do you think of my solution?"

They looked around as Mycroft continued.

"The flight of the dead."

"Plane blows up mid-air, success for the terrorists…hundreds of casualties…" Sherlock began.

"But nobody dies." Finished Demi.

"Neat, don't you think?" Asked Mycroft, who was glowering at his brother. He could see Demitria in the half light, her face bruised beneath the makeup that was now wearing away. He'd have to have very severe words with the CIA about that. She stood close to Sherlock, eyes scanning the plane interior. "You've been stumbling around the fringes of this one for ages. Or were you too bored to notice the pattern?"

Sherlock seemed to be lost in thought as Demi spoke.

"Is this why we've been signing bodies out of the morgue almost before they get there?"

Mycroft half smiled.

"I do apologise for the rush. We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back, though I believe one of our passengers didn't make the flight."

The man in the car. Mycroft continued.

"But that's the deceased for you. Late, in every sense of the word."

"How's the plane going to fly? Of course, unmanned aircraft, hardly new." Sherlock muttered to himself. Mycroft frowned.

"It doesn't fly, it will never fly. This entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can't fool them now. We've lost everything. One fragment of one email and months and years of planning, finished." He shrugged slightly. Demi ached to console her friend, but felt that a plane full of corpses wasn't the best setting for a hug. Besides, Sherlock had positioned himself firmly between her and his brother.

"Your MOD man." She spoke.

"That's all it takes. One lonely, naïve man, desperate to show off. And a woman clever enough to make him feel special."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"You should screen your defence people more carefully."

"I'm not talking about the MOD man Sherlock, I'm talking about you!"

Cold realisation washed over Demi.

"Adler."

Mycroft nodded.

"You suspected her from the start, quite rightly. It was all too well done. A damsel in distress, it was textbook."

"Don't be absurd!" Sherlock broke in.

"Absurd? How quickly did you decipher that email for her? Was it the full minute? Or were you really eager to impress?"

"I think it was less than five seconds." Irene's voice floated through the silence of the plane. Sherlock and Demi turned to see her, Demitria's eyes were slits as she glowered at the woman before her. Irene's hair was elegantly curled up once more, her makeup immaculate and her scarlet lips twisted in a smirk.

"Mr Holmes, I think we need to talk."

"So do I." Sherlock responded. Irene chuckled.

"Not you, junior, you're done now. Hello Demitria darling." She sidled past them, her hand lingering on Demi's arm as she moved onwards. "There's more, loads more. On this phone I've got secrets and pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me. Unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother."

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	14. Chapter 14

Demi sat opposite Sherlock, Irene and Mycroft off to her right. Mycroft's house had never seemed as daunting as it now did, with this woman sat here making demands and brandishing a phone filled with dangerous secrets.

"We have people who can get into this."

"I tested that theory for you. I let Sherlock Holmes try it. Sherlock dear, tell him what you found when you x-rayed my camera phone."

"There are four additional units wired inside the casing. I suspect containing acid or a small amount of explosive. Any attempt to open the casing will burn the hard drive."

Mycroft sighed and massaged his temples.

"Explosive." Smiled Irene, "It's more me."

"Some data is always recoverable." Mycroft tried.

"Take that risk." Irene smiled sublimely.

"There is a pass code to open this, I deeply regret to say we have people who can extract it from you."

Irene sighed and Demi spoke.

"There will be two pass codes, one to open the phone, one to burn the drive."

Sherlock nodded.

"Even under duress you can't know which one she's given you and there would be no point in a second attempt." He added, looking across at Demitria, whose brows were furrowed in thought, her lips pursed as she focused on something. He could see her blue eyes flickering from side to side, following the train of thought in her mind. Irene smiled.

"They're good aren't they? I should have them both on a leash. In fact I might."

"We destroy this, then." Mycroft broke in, trying not to envision Demitria on a leash…or indeed, his brother. "No one has the information."

"Fine. Good idea. Unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you're about to burn."

"Are there?"

"Telling you would be playing fair. I'm not playing anymore." She reached into her handbag, "A list of my requests. And some ideas about my protection once they're granted."

Mycroft took the envelope.

"I'd say it wouldn't blow much of a hole in the wealth of a nation, but then I'd be lying."

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up as he read the curled handwriting.

"I imagine you'd like to sleep on it."

"Thank you, yes."

"Too bad. Off you pop and talk to people."

Mycroft sighed.

"You've been very thorough. I wish our lot were half as good as you."

Irene shook her head.

"I can't take all the credit, I had a bit of help." She turned to Demitria and Sherlock, "Jim Moriarty sends his love."

Mycroft looked up.

"Yes, he's been in touch. Seems desperate for my attention, which I'm sure can be arranged."

"I had all this stuff, never knew what to do with it. Thank God for the consultant criminal. Gave me lots of advice about how to play the Holmes boys and their little pets. Do you know what he calls you? The Ice Man."

She turned to Sherlock.

"And The Virgin. Though I suspect that one needs rectifying, it's not so true anymore is it?"

Demi felt her cheeks flush with colour and she looked away, to the fireplace.

"Oh look how adorable, they're blushing. Do you know what he calls you Demitria? Double D. One for your name and one for your rather lovely-"

"Yes, thank you." Cut in Demi, cheeks still pink, "How come Mycroft gets a superhero name and I get a bra size?"

Irene just smiled.

"Well they are rather hard to ignore. You know he didn't even ask for anything, I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now that's my kind of man."

"Well you're more than welcome to him." Muttered Demi, before falling silent as a series of images flickered through her brain.

"And here you are, the dominatrix that brought a nation to its knees. Nicely played."

"No." She spoke, standing up.

"Sorry?" Irene looked confused. Demi smiled.

"I said no. You almost had me, but no." She walked over. "You got carried away. Elaborate game, enjoying yourself too much…I see it all the time with Sherlock."

Sherlock made a noise of irritation.

"There's no such thing as too much."

Demi grinned.

"Yes there is." She nodded. "I know you, Irene Adler, I know you far too well. It's all very well enjoying yourself but when sentiment gets involved…well we all do silly things don't we?"

"Sentiment?" She watched as Demi's eyes flickered towards Sherlock, "Oh you don't actually think I was interested in him do you? Why? Because he's Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?"

Demi shook her head.

"Oh no, I don't think you were, I know you were. Because as much as I loathe it, we're quite similar, you and I." She smiled, "We both enjoy the danger, the thrill of the chase, just a little bit too much." She smiled. "And when I got back from the shops earlier, the signs were clear enough. Your pulse, visible at your neck, elevated." Her fingers drifted across Irene's throat as if to illustrate her point, "Your pupils dilated, your breathing just a little bit too fast." She slipped Irene's phone off the table and smiled. "When we first met each other you told Sherlock a disguise is always a self portrait, how true of you. The combination to your safe, your measurements but this-" She flipped the phone before catching it again, "This is intimate. This phone is your life, you pour everything into it. This is your heart. And I know better than anybody that you should never let it rule your head."

She typed four digits into the keypad. Irene was looking at her, straight into her burning blue eyes, with a cold realisation.

"Everything I said…it's not real. I was just playing the game." She whispered.

"I know." Demi spoke equally quietly, "And this is just losing."

She held the phone aloft so that the others could read the screen.

**I AM** SHER**LOCKED**.

She pressed enter and the screen sprung to life, folders and icons all over it, Irene's lifeline revealed and defenceless.

"Here you go Mycroft, I hope it makes up for any inconvenience we have caused – well, Sherlock."

Mycroft smiled slightly as she held the phone out to him and took it from her delicately.

"I'm certain it will."

Sherlock nodded, stepping until he stood behind Demitria and gently taking her arm.

"If you're feeling kind, lock her up, otherwise let her go. I doubt she'll survive long without her 'protection'."

Irene stared as they made their way towards the door.

"Are you expecting me to beg?"

"Yes." Answered Sherlock. Irene focused on Demitria. The black haired woman did look sorry, but Irene had had her chance and lost it playing games. She held people's lives in the palm of her hand and smiled while she did it. But Irene now looked smaller, her overwhelming presence lost as it dawned on her exactly how much she had gambled away.

"Please…I won't even last six months."

Sherlock was the one who answered.

"I'm sorry about dinner."

He led Demitria out of the house and into the car that awaited them. His mind was whirring at the recent developments. And Demitria was silent. She'd just destroyed Irene Adler's life, but her remorse was more or less evened out by the thought that because of Irene, because of her working with Moriarty, people were going to die. Innocent people who, unlike Irene, had never been safe and never would be again.

"Well done." Sherlock spoke in the silent car. Demitria shrugged, empty eyes staring at the passing Londoners.

"I just want to go home."

His brain informed him that now was the time for some form of support, or sentiment, and he gently rested his hand atop hers where it lay on the leather of the seat. Her lips twitched upwards slightly but she didn't speak as they were driven home, nor when they walked up to the flat. She just nodded at him and went to her room. He later found her curled on her bed, fully clothed, the remnants of what may have been tears leaving salty trails down her cheeks.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

John was walking back to Baker Street with the shopping – a few odds and ends to keep them going – two months later when he saw Mycroft. He was stood outside the sandwich bar next to their flat, umbrella up to defend him against the falling rain and a cigarette between his lips.

"You don't smoke." He spoke, alerting him to his presence.

"I also don't frequent cafes."

He dropped it onto the floor, standing on it before putting his umbrella down and leading him into the café, buying him a coffee before sitting him down by a table and pulling out a file with a phone and some papers in it.

"It's the file on Irene Adler?" John asked.

Mycroft nodded.

"Closed forever. I am about to go and inform my brother and Demitria or, if you prefer, you are, that she somehow got herself into a witness protection scheme in America. New name, new identity, she will survive and thrive. But he will never see her again."

"Why would they care? I mean he despises her. And Demi, they won't even call her Irene…just 'The woman."

"Is that disregard? Or a salute?"

"But Sherlock doesn't _feel_ things that way…and Demi hated her."

"My brother has the mind of a philosopher or a scientist yet he elects to be a detective. And Demitria has all the beauty and brains a woman could use to go into any business she chose, to make herself rich. Yet she works in a morgue for less than she deserves. What might we deduce about their hearts?"

"I don't know." John shrugged.

"Neither do I. But initially, Sherlock wanted to be a pirate."

"He'll be okay with his, witness protection, never seeing her again, he'll be fine. And Demi too."

"I agree. That's why I decided to tell them that."

"As opposed to what?"

"She's dead." Mycroft responded. "She was captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi a month ago and beheaded."

John paused before speaking.

"It was definitely her? She's done this before."

Mycroft nodded.

"I was thorough this time. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me, and I don't think he was on hand, do you?" John was silent and he continued. "So…" He slid the file across the table. "What shall we tell them?"

X

When John got upstairs Sherlock was looking into a microscope. Demi was taking full advantage of her day off, sprawled across the sofa in her pyjamas and Sherlock's dressing gown, reading a novel. She looked peaceful, as did he, and John was pleased that he didn't have to shatter that peace. They were difficult people, especially in a relationship, today was a good day for them. They argued less often now they were used to each other's presence. Earlier on it had been hard, they were so unused to having someone like themselves around that they were defensive. Now they worked well together and got rid of their frustrations in…ahem…a rather different manner.

"Clearly you've got news." Sherlock broke the silence and Demi looked up, "If it's about the Leeds triple murder, it was the gardener. Nobody noticed the earring." Demi nodded to confirm his words.

"Except us." She added. Sherlock nodded and half smiled.

"Hi, er no it's um…It's about Irene Adler."

"Well?" Sherlock inquired as Demi swallowed. "Did something happen? Did she come back?"

"No, no, she's…I just bumped into Mycroft downstairs, he had to take a call. She's uh…She's in America."

"America?" Asked Demi, frowning.

"Mmm hmm." John nodded, "Got herself on a Witness protection scheme apparently. I don't know how she swung it but…uh…well you know, she won't be seeing any of us again."

"You act as if we're supposed to be disappointed by that fact." Demi spoke from the sofa and John smiled slightly, glad that she believed him. "Is that her file?"

"Yes I was just going to take it back to Mycroft. Do you want to…?"

"No." They answered, going back to their respective activities.

"Did she ever text you again? After all that?" John spoke, turning back to Sherlock from where he'd reached the door.

"Once, a few months ago."

"What did she say?" Asked John. Demi looked up in curiosity.

"Goodbye Mr Holmes."

Satisfied that it wasn't provocative or offensive, Demi went back to her book. Sherlock continued with his experiment…whatever it was, and John went back downstairs with the file.

And that, it seemed, was the end of that.

X

Later that evening, Demitria lay asleep by his side and Sherlock looked over the curves and lines of her body, the contrast of her hair to her skin and the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Demitria Blake was a rare thing of both beauty and logic, and she awakened in him those sensations and emotions that had long since lain dormant and begun to gather dust. He'd decided not to tell her that Irene was not in America, nor that she was dead – as Mycroft clearly thought, as did John. Demitria had clearly been affected by the case, and by Irene herself. She'd both regretted and been proud of what she'd done and she seemed perfectly content with the explanation John had offered as to Irene's current whereabouts and situation. And he found himself wanting to preserve that peace, if only for a while. So he did. His absence the month prior had been explained away by his usual excuse of 'I have a case'. She hadn't suspected a thing, merely wished him luck he wouldn't have needed and left for work.

For once, Sherlock didn't feel the need to pace around the apartment, use the 'stash' John and Demitria loathed, or play the violin until his fingers were raw. For once he was almost content in lying still, Demitria beside him, her warmth permeating the otherwise cool sheets and her gentle breathing accompanying the noises of London traffic. But he wouldn't be content for long.

Unbeknownst to him, the pieces of a complicated puzzle were clicking into place and the days of life as he knew it were numbered.

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